


Giving In

by mollyknight



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: A Lot of Knifeplay, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bombs, Bruce Wayne has a Guilt Complex, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Declarations Of Love, Dom Joker (DCU), Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fighting Kink, Fighting is Flirting, First Kiss, Knifeplay, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Romance, Top Batman, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28297539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollyknight/pseuds/mollyknight
Summary: When Bruce Wayne presses the playing card against the glass of Joker’s padded cell, everything changes.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 41
Kudos: 162





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story jumps off from the flashback scene at the end of Death of the Family by Scott Snyder (10/10 recommend) and thus derails from there. Thanks to all the awesome folks at the discord server for their support and help with this (you know who you are!) and to my incredible, amazing girlfriend for being my editor!

Glassy eyes drift unconsciously to the dim hallway, landing on the darkened outline of Bruce Wayne, immaculately dressed, soft hair neatly combed. Through the glass, Joker’s printed caricature stares back at him, grinning and unrestrained. A funhouse mirror reflection. 

“I found this. I think it belongs to you.”

Joker’s eyes flick to the card, then to the determined eyes and set jaw of the man holding it. Slowly, he turns back to face the wall. 

Unwanted knowledge presses in on Joker, connection after connection clicking together in his mind, mysteries dissolving. He feels the figure linger for a moment longer before it disappears down the hallway.

He had always expected this moment to feel like loss. Like disappointment creeping into the corners of his gut, something intimate and precious slipping through his fingers. 

Instead, he feels something deep in his chest flare up, fragile and tender.

It feels like hope.

***

“Hello, darling.”

_It always starts the same way._

“Joker,” Bruce growls into the receiver. 

Joker’s voice is tinny, distorted by the phone’s speaker. “You know the drill, sweetheart. Come alone or my new friend here won’t make it home tonight.” Bruce hears a muffled whimper in the background.

The sound diminishes, and he hears a faint, “Shh, shh, don’t worry hun, he’ll come. He always comes.” Then louder, “Call Gordon, same deal. We’re at the old Ellis Factory in Tricorner. Can’t wait to see you, pumpkin!” 

***

At the end of August, in the final gasps of summer, Gotham is sweltering. The heat from a full day of sun settles into the concrete and steel of the city and, come nightfall, dribbles into the warm, humid air, like steam from a kettle.

Outside the abandoned factory, Batman perches on the rooftop across the street. The entire block is deserted, neither civilians nor hired muscle in sight.

His cape flutters behind him as he lands soundlessly on the cement of an alley, grimy as the dilapidated building beside it. It takes him less than a moment to identify a shattered window as his best point of entry. He scales a dumpster to reach it, maneuvering to slip through the opening without dislodging any additional glass, and lands on the floor with a dull crunch.. The room is almost the size of an airplane hangar. Broken lights and metal fixtures hang down from an arched ceiling, still and rusted. Wide shafts of moonlight pierce the dark room in sharp diagonal stripes perpendicular to the tall, dust-speckled windows. 

Batman hears the woman before he sees her.

He heads towards the muffled cries coming from the center of the room and, peering into the darkness, sees the woman struggling against ropes that bind her to a chair.

Her eyes grow wide as she sees Batman lunge forward from the shadows, deftly slicing open the restraints binding her wrists with a batarang and undoing the gag around her jaw. Bruce knows what’s going to happen before she even parts her lips to speak.

She gasps, “Look out, he–“

Joker is on him in seconds.

“Run!” he roars at the woman, who is already stumbling away from the fight, her eyes glued on the blur of purple that has attached itself to Batman’s back. She hesitates for only a single second, terror and confusion on her face, before spinning around and fleeing the building.

Batman focuses all of his attention on Joker. He throws him from his back, and it’s when he hears the heavy thud as he hits the cement that, for the first time tonight, he feels life surge into his muscles. He pounces after Joker, crashing into him and landing a punch on his jaw, snapping his neck back.

Joker lets out a gleeful laugh before spitting blood out of his mouth and grinning savagely at Batman.

Bruce kicks at Joker’s ribs, his heavy steel-toed boot causing the clown’s body to curl in with the impact, his whole frame shuddering with giggles. Batman begins to extricate himself from the mess of brightly colored limbs, the heat and utter aliveness of the man beneath him. He pries them apart and pulls himself towards the exit.

"Leaving already, Batsy?" Bruce hears Joker gasp between breaths.

Batman keeps walking. He has come to realize that these fights have become Joker’s incentive to take hostages; if the fights stop, maybe he can actually make a difference. 

"Aww, you’re no fun," whines Joker. Bruce hears the shuffling of him sitting up. "And I kidnapped that one all the way from the Upper East Side, right while she was playin’ with her tots in the park. I bet they cried and cried when Mommy left them there all alone.”

Heat rushes to the base of Bruce’s skull, his vision beginning to blur. He comes to an abrupt halt, boots scuffing against the worn floor, kicking up dust. 

"And you can't even be bothered to get me back to my cozy little spot in Arkham before you go hang upside down in your roost.”

Joker is barely trying, because he knows he doesn’t have to. He only needs to give Batman a tiny sliver, a semblance of a reason to stay, enough bait to fight off the parts of his mind that scream, _stop this while you still can._

"I'll just go find some other pretty taxpayer as a replacement toy if you leave me with such a spring in my step." Bruce feels Joker's sly gaze on his back. "And maybe next time I won't bother to call before I have my fun, if you're not in the mood to play...." 

Batman turns around to glare at Joker and he aims a pout at him from the floor. Bruce puts as much virulent hatred into the gaze as he could muster, as if forcing the expression across his face would stamp out the bubbling sensation vaguely akin to glee that is currently dancing through his insides.

He has to stay.

He stalks back towards Joker with precise steps, his muscles tensing. Joker’s grin becomes a blaze as he begins to circle Batman, his shoulders ducked in their characteristic hunch.

“That’s it, Batsy, I knew you couldn’t resist me.” Joker reaches up to mockingly preen, curling a strand of green hair around one long finger.

Batman lunges low, shouldering under Joker’s raised arm. Joker stumbles, but doesn’t lose his balance. His other arm is already coming out of his coat pocket, a purple blur and a metal gleam that Batman has mere moments to jump back from. Joker pounces forward, thrusting the knife toward his shoulder, but Bruce grabs his arm just in time, blocking the imminent blow. 

He tries to twist Joker’s arm back but the smaller man clicks his feet together and as he hears the small blades spring out from his wingtips, Bruce dodges the hard kick aimed at his shins with only seconds to spare. He catches Joker’s raised foot and manages to punch Joker square in the face, the blow landing with a _thwap_. This time, Joker stumbles back and hits the ground, coughing up wet laughter as he wipes at the blood streaming down his face.

“Is that all you got? Come on, baby,” Joker rises to his feet, his eyes bright, his smile wide enough to tear into his cheeks. 

Bruce steps forward, feeling completely and utterly _alive_ , every vein in his body rushing, his pulse hammering. 

Both men are breathing faster now, short intakes that tighten and coil in Bruce’s chest. As Batman dives at Joker again he can tell the smaller man has no intention of avoiding him. They land on the ground, hard. 

Bruce lifts himself up, body hovering over Joker. He pulls his fist back again and looks down at the clown.

Joker is completely still, a strange expression on his face. With Batman’s fist still in the air, Joker reaches a hand up and gloved fingers flutter against his jaw. Bruce freezes, his skin blazing frost where he touches him, ever so cautiously. 

There is something in Joker's eyes that doesn't belong there, usually so sharp and excited, and it makes something sink, heavy, in his chest.

Bruce only hesitates for a split second, but Joker uses it to his advantage, slamming his raised hand into Bruce’s shoulder and flipping them over until he lands on top of Bruce. Joker pins one arm to the ground with a knee while his hands force Bruce’s other wrist down. Bruce struggles to wrest his arm free but Joker presses his full weight onto his knee, the gauntlet underneath creaking. With his left hand Joker intertwines their fingers, pressing Bruce’s hand into the ground while Joker’s right hand disappears into his jacket. 

Joker leans close to Bruce’s face, their chests near enough that Bruce can feel the other man’s heart beating alongside his own. Joker’s lips are inches from his own, his eyes dilated. Blood drips slowly over his lip and a pink tongue swipes it away, mechanically. Bruce stops breathing, something in his chest stretched taut like a violin string.

He gives his arm a powerful wrench, trying to pull away, and then feels cold metal against the soft underside of his chin.

“Ah, ah, ah Batsy.” 

Bruce hears the click of a safety lock and feels the barrel of a gun digging into his exposed skin.Joker lets Bruce’s other hand go, his smile widening as the larger man stills underneath him. 

He traces a gloved finger over the sides of the cowl. Where Bruce expects triumph, he sees only a soft melancholy in Joker’s eyes. In striking opposition with the vicious mirth of just a moment ago, the pale face seems pensive as Joker takes in the square jaw and blue eyes beneath him. 

He pulls the trigger.

Liquid drips down his lips and onto his chin, so hot it feels icy, sliding down his neck– no, that’s not right. Bruce wipes it away, glancing at his hand. 

Water. A water gun. 

Bruce growls as Joker holds a hand up, gasping for breath and hunched over with laughter. Bruce dives forward and yanks the raised hand over his shoulder, hearing a satisfying crack as he dislocates Joker’s shoulder. 

The laughter becomes frenzied. Bruce tries to wrangle the man’s other arm but Joker swings his elbow directly into Bruce’s throat and he stumbles back, coughing. By the time he can blink away the tears, Joker is a purple blur turning the corner of the large eroded metal doors. He halfheartedly jogs after him but, when he reaches the doors, there’s no sign of the clown.

***

Alfred is waiting for him when he returns to the Batcave. Bruce pulls himself out of the Batmobile, his armor heavy and tight against his skin. 

“You’re home exceptionally late, or should I say early?” 

“The factory was all the way down in the Tricorner Yards.”

“And the Joker?”

“He got away.” Bruce doesn’t look at Alfred. “I was searching the area until dawn.” 

Alfred doesn’t need to know that he spent the last three hours hopping from rooftop to rooftop until he was too exhausted to think, too exhausted to remember the feeling of gloved fingers flitting over his skin, the searing stare.

“There’s breakfast waiting for you in the master bedroom. Remember the fundraiser this evening starts at eight, you’ll need to be up before noon to oversee the final arrangements.” Bruce tries not to let out an audible groan and fails. 

Alfred smiles sympathetically. “I’ll get the suit cleaned up while you wash, sir.” 

As Bruce begins peeling off the layers, he realizes he can smell Joker all over the suit, a smell almost as familiar as the kevlar itself, and he hopes Alfred is unable to recognize the scent.

“Thank you, Alfred.” Handing over the heavy black gear Bruce walks away toward the showers.

The cold water rinses away his sweat but he increases the water pressure anyway, wishing the icy jets could wash away the tension of the fight, the static electricity, buzzing bright and unbridled, that lingers under his skin. The flashing memories of the warm heat of Joker on top of him are a ragged tear in his mind, the edges fluttering about like a torn mast in a storm.

Wrapping himself in the too-soft white towel, Bruce breathes deeply. 

He can still smell the lingering plastic scent of makeup, the leather of purple gloves. He rubs his jaw hard, as if he could wipe away what the shower failed to remove.

***

He’s on fire.

The flames keep licking at his throat even as he lifts his chin, trying desperately to escape from the searing heat. It climbs higher and higher still, relentless and all-consuming, until the inferno swallows him whole. 

When he wakes up, he’s sweating.

***

Bruce pads into the kitchen where Alfred has already set out breakfast along the counter. He slides onto a barstool and flicks on the TV as he takes his first bite. 

A reporter is interviewing first responders, smoke filling the background of the shot.

“We tried to contain the fire, but by the time we got here, it had already spread two floors up. We had to evacuate all our men before the support beams collapsed.” The firefighter is still out of breath, covered in soot. 

They cut back to the news hosts, seated at their desk. “As of now, this is thought to be the work of the Joker, due to the preliminary eyewitness reports taken by officers at the scene, but we won’t know for sure until the building is deemed safe to enter by firefighters and police can begin collecting evidence.” 

Alfred comes into the kitchen. 

“How’s your breakfast, sir?” 

Bruce puts his fork down and nods, his eyes still glued to the television. Alfred follows his gaze.

“The Joker again?” 

“That’s what they’re saying.” The back of Bruce’s throat feels hot and uncomfortable. 

Alfred glances at Bruce as he rinses the dishes in the sink.

“Please endeavor to remember that even the Caped Crusader cannot be omnipresent. You couldn’t have predicted the madman’s behavior.”

 _But I could have prevented him from doing anything last night_. If Bruce had done his job and had taken Joker back to Arkham, there would be no fire on the news. If Bruce hadn’t gotten caught up in their fight, he probably could have taken him down that night. Bruce played right into Joker’s hands and was left carrying the guilt that came uselessly late.

 _And that,_ Bruce thinks, _is probably exactly what he wanted._


	2. Chapter 2

There are a variety of fundraisers that Alfred insists Bruce attend, doing his duty to show the public the charming if vapid persona that supposedly runs Wayne Enterprises. This was incredibly inconvenient because these happen to be exactly the type of events that Gotham's criminal class adored gate crashing.

As a subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises managed the selected charity, for once Bruce elected to host the event in his own penthouse apartment in central Gotham. 

He stands, in an impeccable suit, seemingly wrapped up in conversation with several company investors, but surreptitiously looking over every single person that enters the room, keeping an eye out for anyone that doesn’t fit into the usual crowd of the Gotham elite that normally makes their way to these events. His eyes drift over a group gathered near the entrance, stopping on a lean man amongst them. 

His hair is light brown, slicked back modestly, making it look shorter than it really is. His cheeks are a healthy pink and he’s softened away the prominent angles of his cheekbones with subtle shading. 

The man meets Bruce’s eyes for a split second and Bruce feels cold slice through his stomach. 

The shade of green is utterly familiar, ghostly and out of place against unpainted skin. 

It is, inexorably, him. Over the heads of the ebbing crowd he can still make out the high cheekbones, angular jawline, and high forehead of the Joker. Bruce doubts, however, that anyone would be able to recognize those features just from what they had seen of him on television. Few people got close enough to his face as Bruce regularly did and lived to tell the tale.

Joker has a white gloved hand resting on the small of the brunette woman beside him, who is gradually leaning towards him as he speaks. They all laugh for a moment before moving to pick up a second round of champagne from a passing server. It’s disturbing how easily Joker blends in with the crowd, even changing his laugh into a low chuckle that brings out a baritone he rarely hears from the clown. 

Bruce tears his eyes away from Joker, schooling his features back into an easygoing smile. The light eyes and smiling faces twinkle around Joker, limbs loosening as people discard empty champagne glasses amidst the platters of cheeses and fruits. If none of these other socialites recognize Joker, Bruce Wayne could hardly sound the alarm. Besides, an attempt to evacuate the guests or confront him at all might put more people in danger. 

Bruce rolls his shoulders, trying not to look as tense as he feels. A platter of shrimp floats by his right shoulder and he reaches to grab one, giving his fingers and jaw something to do. He inclines his body further toward the beautiful woman and her gray-haired date in front of him, both vying for his attention with equal vigor, but his eyes drift back to where Joker is standing. 

_Does he know?_

Bruce thinks back to that moment in Arkham, all those months ago. Joker had seemed to stare at him without seeing, as if without his mask, Bruce was invisible to him. The empty expression betrayed neither surprise nor recognition. Going there had been risky and foolish; Bruce knew that from the moment he stepped through the high wrought iron gates, but it was a calculated risk. 

The two of them were hurtling towards death together, each encounter another opportunity for a punch to leave shattered skull against brick, for a knife to slip too deep. Every artery a ticking bomb waiting to be nicked open, to stream black into the rainwater seeping over the Gotham sidewalks into muddy storm drains.

That was his chance to change their course. Try one more time to offer a different path. One that didn’t end with them both at the bottom of Gotham River.

But he had failed.

Bruce glances up at Joker and finds those astringent green eyes locked on him. Joker excuses himself from the group surrounding him and begins to make his way through the crowd, heading in Bruce’s direction. 

The handsome man is all but unrecognizable and Bruce feels doubt taint his previous certainty that this could be Joker. The rosy cheeks and soft edges of the approaching man spark a searing unease in Bruce’s stomach. He is possessed with the urge to tackle the man to the ground, to grind his face into the floor until all that makeup comes away, revealing the sinewy grin he knows is underneath.

“Mr. Wayne,” Joker gives a small bow and, with a flourish, presents a white gloved hand. “Might I have the honor of a dance tonight?”

The woman next to him raises an appreciative eyebrow.

“Of course, Mister…”

“Napier, Jack Napier.”

“Mr. Napier.” Bruce tries to adjust his posture to mask the tension flaring through his body. He reaches forward to take the offered hand, even as his gut screams at him to drop it as if he had just picked up a hot pan. 

They make their way to the dance floor and join the ongoing waltz. 

His hand feels simultaneously utterly foreign and desperately familiar on the curve of Joker’s waist. How many times had he touched that spot before, with knees and elbows? But he had never touched him this gently, his hand resting just behind his hip, his skin crackling in its stillness. The air itself seems to rebel against the lack of movement.

 _He knows,_ his thoughts repeat, a mantra in time with his blood. Bruce tries to reign in the adrenaline cooling through his limbs, his muscles aching for movement, anything to shake off the heavy, binding voltage between them.

“This is a lovely gala, Mr. Wayne.”

“Thank you,” he replies shortly.

“Do you spend a lot of your time during the day managing the Wayne Foundation?”

“Amongst other subsidiaries of Wayne Enterprises.”

“You must keep quite busy.” Joker’s eyes flash and the briefest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. 

“I’ve been thinking about my career a lot lately,” Joker continues.

“What is it that you do?”

“Oh, this and that. I like to keep busy too.” Joker adjusts his grip on Bruce’s hand. 

“Working on anything interesting recently?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Joker wiggles an eyebrow at Bruce and the certainty is a cold stone dropping into his stomach. _He knows._

The orchestra begins to play a faster-paced jazz standard. Joker adjusts his hands on Bruce, taking the lead in the dance.

“I waited a long time to show up to one of these shindigs.” Joker is looking over Bruce’s shoulder, out at the sea of guests. 

“But I had to know,” he continues, “I had to be sure.” Joker stares directly at Bruce. His eyes are acid hot, in corrosive discord with the composed atmosphere of the room. Joker’s gaze flicks back and forth between his eyes, his expression unreadable. His hand twitches against Bruce’s shoulder, a rubber band about to snap.

Two fingers lift from his shoulder to brush against his jaw. Bruce’s mind goes carefully blank. The touch is fragile, a lit match gently floating through the air to land in a pool of gasoline. 

Had his eyes always been so deep-set, so penetrating? 

Bruce tries to stifle the sensation spreading from the point of Joker’s touch through his limbs. But it spreads through him undeterred, the smell of smoke lingering on skin. 

_It’s a trick._

“Strong and silent type is not an exaggeration when it comes to you, is it Brucie?” Joker straightens his posture. Bruce hadn’t realized how close their faces had been. 

“Thanks for the dance,” Joker winks at him as he slides his hands down Bruce’s sides, both of them coming to a stop while couples swirl around them. 

“Don’t stay up too late, darling.” He slips away into the crowd and Bruce loses sight of him amongst the bobbing heads of the other dancers. 

***

Bruce breathes a sigh of relief as the final lingering guests totter toward the elevator down to the lobby. Thankfully, the night hadn’t ended in a hostage situation; hosting the event as Bruce Wayne had been just as exhausting as it would have been had Joker felt the need to turn it into a crime scene. 

“Will you be spending the night in the penthouse, Master Bruce?” Alfred appears in the entry hall.

“I think so, it’s been a long night.” 

“Not as long as some of them, I’m sure.”

“That’s up for debate.” Bruce stifles a yawn as he makes his way past Alfred and up the stairs to the bedroom.

“Would you like me to stay here as well?” Alfred asks.

“No Alfred, that’s alright, you can head back to the manor. I just need to crash here tonight,” Bruce replies.

“Very well. I’ll have a car waiting for you in the morning.”

“Thanks Alfred, have a good night,” Bruce says.

“Sleep well, Master Bruce.”

Bruce is looking forward to waking up rested in the morning for the first time in a long time.

***

Bruce’s blood shoots cold through his veins, raw dread making his head spin. 

The Joker is on his bed. 

"Do you always sleep shirtless or did you know I was coming?" Joker giggles.

Joker pulls his legs up onto the bed and sits cross-legged on the expensive sheets, like a schoolgirl at a sleepover. His face is back to its normal ghostly white complexion. His lips look black in the dim light.

"I honestly wasn’t completely sure that day at Arkham hadn’t been a dream,” Joker starts, “I mean how often does your crush turn out to have a secret identity as a handsome billionaire? Too good to be true, must be from all the fun pills they give me. But your mask doesn’t cover up those eyes. Today when I saw you up close," Joker shuts his eyes, tilting his head back a little, "I said, hey now, I _know_ those eyes." 

Bruce can remember the moment their eyes met through the crowd, the single moment of unwavering recognition.

“I think you had something to say to me that day.” Joker opens his eyes and looks directly at Bruce. “Something I didn’t give you the chance to get out. I was enjoying the game too much to consider any change.” 

He gives Bruce a wry grin. “What can I say, I’m a man who loves stability. Give me a routine and I’ll be happy.” His smile stretches but he doesn’t laugh. 

Bruce fights to keep his expression neutral. _Where is this going?_

“What I came to tell you is,” Joker speaks slowly, slower than Bruce had ever heard before, “I’m ready for that change now.”

Joker is drinking him in now, his eyes combing over every inch of him, frozen against the headboard, waistband of his boxers just visible above the silk sheets. 

Bruce can barely hear Joker over the thundering crash of his pulse in his ears.

“I've always loved our game, Batsy, but the world is a changing place, you gotta change with it. And the two of us won’t always be so young and spry,” he winks, his hand going into his jacket. 

Joker lightly pulls a blade out of his inside pocket and Bruce miraculously feels his body switch into a more familiar state. Defensive maneuvers flood like dopamine through his head and he counts the different ways Joker could attack and the options for blocking his knife, until his pulse slows its hammering beat.

Joker traces the fingers of his gloved hand with the tip of the knife, "I don't just want–" Joker broke off, looking up to meet Bruce's silent gaze. 

"I want more."

Joker speaks with a finality that makes Bruce dizzy, like he’s sinking deep into the bed, lower and lower, where no one would ever be able to pull him out again. Joker slides forward, knife delicately tracing up Bruce's leg through the sheet. Bruce starts but the knife is at his neck in a flash, Joker's face now inches away from his.

"Ah, ah, ah, Brucie," Joker says, tracing the knife down his neck, sending uncontrollable shivers down Bruce's back that the kevlar he was normally swathed in had always diminished. Joker smirks at him, his hungry eyes undoubtedly focused on the goosebump covered skin. 

A twisted knot of feelings is writhing in his gut, unidentifiable except by their familiarity: those he only feels in dark alleys and rooftops, spitting out blood, in those few seconds when he gives in to the rage, violence, and unwavering glee of his partner as they danced. Moments precious and infinite, that he stores away in a box in his mind never to be analyzed or considered.*

Joker is one of the only people in Gotham that Bruce trusted, without a doubt, would never kill him. He finds himself immobile as Joker gets closer, not from shock or fear, but something softer. It eases through his veins so liquidly that Bruce mentally checks his body for the pricking sensation of a needle sliding out. 

His mind is just a passenger in a body that no longer belongs to him and, God, it felt so _easy_. Joker has him vulnerable, unarmored, at knifepoint, and alone in his darkened bedroom. 

All he can do is let him take.

Joker's face is now so close Bruce could count his eyelashes, the neon glow of the city lights casting soft shadows over his cheekbones. Joker's pupils dilate infinitesimally as he locks his gaze on Bruce's eyes, in that way that they had all those years ago when they fought for the first time. When Bruce had pulled back, startled and more afraid than he had ever been before, because the emotion there was something he'd never been prepared to see in a fight. 

Joker is still, their faces centimeters apart, and all Bruce can hear is rushing waves. Joker tilts his head minutely, something hesitant just visible behind the confident features and steady hands. He’s waiting. The rush of heady nausea is overwhelmed by raw heat flooding through Bruce’s veins. 

Bruce gives an almost imperceptible nod.

And then Joker's lips are on his and Bruce's mind is curiously blank. The other man’s lips are warm and soft on his cold mouth and they apply an improbably gentle pressure as he presses a multitude of soft kisses to his mouth, the sweet quiet sounds reaching Bruce's ears as if through an almost forgotten memory. The knife tip presses to his sternum in contrast with the other gloved hand that comes up to stroke his jaw with a featherlight touch that sends tingles through his whole face.

Joker's lips become more eager and they pepper kisses on his lips and his face, over his nose and his cheekbones, a desperation evident that Bruce had never seen in the man before. He kisses him like a starving man, never able to get enough. The shame Bruce expects to feel doesn’t come, maybe because of the sharp point of the knife now against his collarbone. Maybe because of the way his lips burn in between every kiss.

Joker reaches for his face, fingers rubbing hard into his cheeks, as if he could rub the skin away. Did he expect Bruce Wayne to fall away and reveal Batman underneath? 

Didn’t Bruce? 

The sounds of both men panting fill the room. Joker hoists a leg over Bruce’s abdomen, now straddling him. With one hand still holding the knife steady inches from his heart, Joker gathers up Bruce’s wrists in his other hand, presses them to the headboard, and leans down to kiss Bruce with bruising force. Joker changes the angle of the kiss, forcing Bruce to tilt his head up. With the pale skin of his neck jutting out, Bruce feels utterly exposed, more so than he had been around anyone in the recent past, let alone _the Joker_. 

The thought sends an electric current through his body and, almost involuntarily, he opens his mouth into the kiss. Joker doesn’t need further invitation than that. His tongue is suddenly hot in his mouth; the wet movement against his teeth is dizzyingly arousing. Bruce is drowning in his own body, pulled under by the crashing fire of his cells, his vision narrowing until Joker’s steady green stare becomes all he can see. Joker drags sharp teeth across his jaw and Bruce gasps for breath. He pulls back to look down at Bruce, letting go of his wrists in favor of running his thumb over Bruce’s cheek, this time more gently. 

Bruce keeps his wrists up on the headboard. 

Joker arches an eyebrow, a smirk curling slowly across his face. His grip on the knife tightens as he runs the tip feather light over Bruce’s chest. The thumb on his cheek moves to his lips, just lightly brushing over the hypersensitive skin. Bruce feels the knife tap once, twice, lightly on his chest then Joker slides one pale finger into Bruce’s mouth. 

It takes all of Bruce’s conviction not to moan. He flicks his tongue around the digit, licking down the length as Joker pulls it out of his mouth with a wet pop.

Bruce feels saliva on his chin but Joker is already leaning forward and licking it away, his smile sharp and alive. His tongue traces over Bruce’s lips but he pulls his mouth away instead of kissing him again. He presses their foreheads together, their ragged breaths mingling. Joker’s hand slides up Bruce’s throat, somehow quickening his already thundering pulse as he drags his nails up the soft skin, hard enough to leave marks. He slides his hand up, over Bruce’s chin, before pushing two fingers past his wet lips. 

The knife is a steady grounding pressure on his chest as Bruce loses all sense of anything but the man in front of him. Joker’s face is so close that he feels every breath, can see the feverish need written across his expression. Coupled with the slick, wet slide of his fingers, it sends heat pooling in his groin. Joker pushes his fingers in deep, filling Bruce’s mouth completely and just lingering at the edge of his gag reflex. The sick rush in his throat makes him wish Joker would push deeper, would overwhelm him, would take everything-

Joker pulls his fingers out with a languid flourish but as Bruce is about to gasp for breath Joker slams forward, bringing the knife back up to Bruce’s neck and kissing him fiercely, before lowering himself down Bruce’s body. He scratches his teeth down the side of Bruce’s throat, stopping to suck dark bruises into his skin. As Joker lowers himself down Bruce’s body, his thigh brushes against Bruce’s bulging boxers, sending a jolt up his spine. 

Joker kisses and bites his way down Bruce’s chest, as if trying to mark every inch of him with his mouth. What he can’t reach, he scrapes his nails across, leaving red stripes on Bruce’s skin, violent adoration in every scratch. Joker swirls his tongue over Bruce’s exposed hip, the knife gently playing at the side of his thigh, before looking up to meet Bruce’s eyes. 

Joker’s usually green eyes are an all-consuming blaze of black. He pulls Bruce’s boxers down over his straining erection. His tongue darts out to wet his red lips before he takes Bruce into his mouth in a single movement. 

Bruce cries out as he grips the headboard tighter. The overwhelming sensation of Joker’s mouth on his cock rips through him and he closes his eyes against the onslaught. 

His eyes shoot open as Joker’s mouth pops off of him. He looks up at Bruce from underneath his eyebrows, saliva on his chin.

“Look at me,” he growls. Bruce obeys and Joker immediately brings his mouth back down to Bruce’s cock, taking him deep in his mouth with fluid quickening movements. 

Joker looks up at Bruce every so often, his eyes dark and possessive, and hot shame becomes so intertwined with Bruce’s arousal that he can no longer differentiate the two.

Joker’s tongue laves up and down his length with every bob of his head and Bruce suddenly realizes this is not going to last very long. He tamps down the unbidden urge to run his fingers through the messy green hair that has become a wild halo in the pale downtown lights. 

Joker’s movements become faster and Bruce groans as he gets closer and closer to orgasm. The obscene noises from Joker’s mouth around him, the dark eyes watching him, all send him nearer to the edge. Joker seems to know that Bruce is close and looks like he is only just refraining from smirking around Bruce’s cock.

Then, like hot liquid boiling over the rim of a pot, he orgasms, a soft cry falling from his lips. Joker swallows everything Bruce has to give before pulling off and wiping his own lips. He lets his head fall back and his arms fall to his side, his eyes shutting for a moment.

The pleasure is quieting for a sweet clear note of a moment before the buzz begins, low and angry in his head. 

Bruce opens his eyes and-

Joker is gone. The bedroom window is wide open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze.


	3. Chapter 3

He could not _fucking_ believe himself.

The most dangerous criminal in Gotham, the awful horrible things Joker has done to this city, the wanton destruction, and he had just-

Let him suck him off in his own bedroom.

 _The knife_ , a quiet part of his brain comes to his rescue.

Bruce would have fought back if the knife hadn’t been there, if he was able to free himself, he would have never have let things go that far. But without his armor, already half-naked and half-asleep, he was completely defenseless.

Besides, if Joker was occupied with him, he wasn’t terrorizing Gotham, and that was a win, right? 

Bruce snorts. Next time Batman got intel from Jim Gordon he’d be sure to clue him in on this new technique for keeping crime off the streets.

His phone buzzes.

Bruce picks it up from his bedside table. Alfred’s name glowing across the screen redoubles the shame coursing through his skin.

He sucks in a deep breath of air and picks up the phone.

“Alfred.”

“Good morning, Master Wayne. I trust you haven’t forgotten the Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors meeting at ten?” 

Bruce pulls the phone away from his ear to check the time. 9:39 AM.

“There’s a car already waiting outside the penthouse. Do try to get there before eleven,” Alfred’s tone doesn’t change.

“Thanks, Alfred.” Bruce tries to relay some of his gratitude through his tone but it may have just sounded tired.

“And breakfast is in the car.” 

“What would I do without you?” 

“I shudder to think,” Alfred says mildly.

Bruce hangs up the phone and gets out of bed. 

He wishes it wasn’t so brightly sunny. Crystal blue skies had broken through the perpetual grey haze of clouds that shrouded the city. The unforgiving sunlight that cleaves through his windows makes his temples pulse dully as he pads to the bathroom. 

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror as he heads toward the shower and comes to an abrupt stop. 

Dark bruises bloom across his neck, vibrant against his pale skin. They trail down over his collarbone and spread across his chest like coffee spilled across a white tablecloth.

He dearly hopes the early fall breezes would be cool enough to warrant him wearing a turtleneck today.

A very high turtleneck.

***

Six months ago, Dr. Jonathan Crane escaped from Arkham Asylum and no one has seen him since. As the sun dips behind the Gotham skyscrapers, tipping the city into an early dusk, Bruce downloads the latest GCPD case files Gordon had uploaded to the private server they shared. 

Early that morning a couple of uniformed officers on a beat in Chinatown arrested what they assumed was a drunk in the final hours of a bender, but a blood analysis from Gotham General doctors found a chemical in his blood other than alcohol. Isolated, it came up as a match with toxins previously used by the Scarecrow.

This was the first concrete lead as to Scarecrow’s plans since his escape and it was clear that Crane was experimenting with his toxins again. 

That night, Bruce suits up and heads to Chinatown to investigate the area where police had arrested the man. He didn’t have a registered residence so it’s likely that Scarecrow is experimenting on homeless populations again. Batman is hopeful that Scarecrow will return to the same area to find more subjects for his experiments.

He chooses a homeless encampment tucked in the shadow of a disused meatpacking plant, where it seems likely that the arrested man had been staying. Batman settles into the shadows of a nearby alley. He is far enough away that he would be practically invisible to people passing on the street but the encampment is still widely visible so he can see if anyone shows up.

***

Several hours had passed and there was no sign of Scarecrow or anyone entering or exiting the area. Batman stretches his aching, stiff muscles and hears a satisfying popping in his back. 

“I never thought being Batman could be this _boring._ ”

Batman whirls around and, sure enough, a figure in a familiar purple coat is hanging from the fire escape, feet dangling a few feet above a dumpster. Joker lets go of the lowest rung of the ladder and plops down to sit, dangling his feet over the edge of the dumpster.

“Joker,” Batman growls. He starts forward.

“I love it when you say my name Batsy, always gives me the shivers,” he giggles. “But relax,” he opens up his jacket, showing the haphazardly patched and empty inside pockets to Bruce. “See? I’m not up to anything,” he winks at Batman.

Batman snorts. As if he doesn’t have a dozen knives hidden in other places. But he stops advancing and Joker stays put.

“Honest, I just wanted to see you. You know I miss you when you’re not around,” Joker swings his legs childishly, knocking them against the side of the bin.

As Joker stares at him, eyes bright and unreadable, it would have been easy to forget how dangerous he is, the way the moonlight softens his features, making the colors of his suit less vibrant, the grin a little less mad. 

Joker jumps down, landing lightly in the alley. The momentary softness is gone, replaced with his usual manic energy. 

“How long have you been there?” Batman demands.

“Long enough to know you need a stretch. A little five minute workout, maybe?”

It’s as much of an invitation as either of them need.

Joker sidesteps Batman’s punch, aiming a kick low. Joker’s shoe connects with Bruce’s knee and he forces Bruce downwards, using the moment to quickly grab a garbage can lid and slam it into the side of Batman’s head. 

For a moment, the ringing in his ears sings louder than the rushing blood in his veins and he can’t hear what Joker says next. But he sees the fist coming toward his head and makes a grab for Joker’s wrist, black kevlar closing around purple fabric. Hauling Joker’s arm over his shoulder, he flips the smaller man over and throws him onto the ground. Joker skids into a dumpster, the dull clang reverberating with his laughter through the street. He has hardly taken a breath before Joker is on his feet, pouncing after him, using the momentum to slam Batman against the brick wall of the alley.

“Look at you out here, all this energy. You’ll never admit it, but,” Joker’s words are punctuated with labored breaths, “you need this just as much as I do.” 

Their breathing matches perfectly. _Their pulses would be the same too_ , Bruce thinks. He suppresses a wild urge to press his hand to Joker’s chest, to feel his heartbeat.

Joker pins one of Bruce’s wrists to the wall, while the other hand presses on Bruce’s shoulder, his feet digging into the pavement for purchase. 

Without the constant movement of the fight, the adrenaline spiking through Bruce has nowhere to go and it thrums maddeningly through his limbs. Batman tries to shove at Joker with his free hand, but the clown deftly swings his hips back and this time leaps forward to pin both arms against the brick. 

“Ah, ah, ah, feisty tonight aren’t we? You remember how that worked out for you last time,” Joker says, a playfully dangerous glint in his eyes. Bruce feels his gut clench.

Their fights are familiar for them both, but this… this was uncharted territory.

Joker is inches from his face. The alley is heavily shadowed; Bruce can only hope the flicker of his eyes down to those lips is masked by the darkness. But Joker’s widening grin says otherwise. 

The curve of those lips sends a jolt through Batman and he lurches into action, slamming his head forward and crashing his cowl into Joker’s forehead. Joker stumbles backwards, releasing Bruce’s arms, his hands going to his forehead.

Joker lets out a sigh as he staggers back. “You don’t know when to quit, do you Bats.” Bruce hears an unfamiliar note of tiredness in Joker’s voice before it gives way to giggles. 

Joker straightens up, “Suppose that’s why I like you so much.” 

His smile is all teeth as he lunges at Bruce again, faking an uppercut and instead tackling Bruce around the middle and pulling them both sprawling over the ground. Bruce’s hands scrabble against the ground, searching for purchase, as Joker sits up, legs around his sides. There is a flash of silver at Joker’s sleeve and suddenly there’s a knife at Bruce’s neck. 

“It’s the same old tricks to get you going, isn’t it gorgeous,” Joker whispers into his ear. The single distant streetlight makes shadows play across Joker’s face as he tilts his face to be directly over Bruce’s. “Poor damsel in distress, if only Batman were here to save you.” Joker breaks into fresh cackles. Bruce has to control the urge to roll his eyes, probably not the best call in his current position. 

Joker traces the knife lightly around his jawline, his eyes boring holes into Bruce’s.

The kiss is so delicate it hurts. The aching gentle pressure burns through his body and he wants to either shove Joker away or draw him close and crush him until he hears bones break.

 _It’s not my fault, I had no choice_.

Heat is building under the suit and a flurry of emotions swell in his chest. The fight still thrums in his blood; he wants to crush him into the ground, to grind his bones against the cement– Joker lets out a groan above him and Bruce realizes he was grinding their hips together, their thighs interlocked.

Dark want spreads through him like poison coursing through his bloodstream.

Joker’s hand strays over his crotch, his palm warm through the codpiece.

“Why don’t you just let go?” Joker asks. He moves close to his ear, “Stop fighting it, darling.”

He no longer feels the knife pressed to his neck. Joker’s hand is out of sight, presumably leaning on the ground for support. Bruce thrusts his foot at Joker’s shin, a growl ripping from his throat.

Joker dodges the kick easily and the knife is back, a steady cool pressure on his neck. 

“Always the fighter.”

Suddenly the suit feels immeasurably heavy on Bruce.

A smirk slants across Joker’s mouth and Bruce wants nothing more than to wipe it off.

So he kisses him.

Bruce pushes into his mouth, teeth and tongues clashing uncomfortably. His lips press urgently into Joker’s, hot and slick. Joker moves against him like he’s the first drink of fresh water after months lost at sea, his mouth needy and relentless, his kisses impatient.

Unwanted, unwelcome, unwarranted, something warm creeps into Bruce’s chest. Like the tip of a dagger, the familiar need that exists between them transforms into liquid metal, too bright to look at. A warmth of emotion where there should be only hard steel.

He is learning that hatred and adoration can exist simultaneously, twisting around each other in the same pump of his blood.

Joker’s free hand is fumbling at the edges of his suit, fingers slipping around the panels as he feels for a latch or opening. His eyes are dark, excited, but his face is open in a way that feels uncharacteristic on those pale features.

Like a sped up tape, reality slams back into him like being plunged into icy water. 

Those long fingers are finding every weakness in his armor and Batman is just laying back and _letting him._

He won’t be another pawn, another punchline. 

This time Bruce takes Joker by surprise, using the kiss as leverage to twist his arm free and pin down the hand holding the knife. He crushes Joker’s wrist in his hand, forcing him to drop the knife and then slamming his shoulders into Joker’s chest, knocking him backwards onto the grimy pavement.

Joker starts to let out a wheezing laugh but Bruce quickly turns away, distracted. 

Two large vans are pulling up the street. They come to a stop in front of the cluster of shelters. 

The sound of the doors sliding open echoes around the quiet square. Three men jump out of one van and open the doors of the second. The driver of the second van gets out and approaches a group of homeless men gathered around a makeshift campfire in a tall bin. 

Joker crouches next to him, his eyes bright and curious.

“This the big bad you’ve been waiting for? They don’t look so tough, I bet we can take them.”

“ _We_ aren’t doing anything,” Batman growls.

“And miss all the fun? I don’t think so, Batsy,” Joker says loudly.

One of the men from the vans peers down their alley, where they are hopefully too shrouded in darkness to be visible.

“Keep your voice down,” Batman hisses.

“Oops.” Joker gives him a wide, unapologetic grin.

The man calls over someone else and they both approach the alley. His opportunity to follow the van and find Scarecrow’s current hideout is gone. All he can do now is, hopefully, take one of the drivers into custody and interrogate the location out of them.

Joker darts out of the alley into the square, landing with a leap in the center of the wide spotlight radiating from a high streetlight.

“Greetings gentlemen!” Joker gives a theatrical bow. “It’s a beautiful night in Gotham, don’t you think, boys? Now, what’s a pack of underpaid, overworked bruisers like yourselves doing up to at this hour, I wonder?” 

The men are moving towards Joker, forming a circle around him. Thinking that with six on one, they might have a chance against him.

They are mistaken.

Batman plunges down from the fire escape he’d scaled, letting himself glide the last few meters, his extended boot colliding with the outermost goon’s face. Joker is a blur of purple and silver, a knife in each hand as he lunges toward two goons who are still gawking at Batman.

“No!” Batman yells. “Don’t kill them.”

Joker ducks their punches and plunges a knife into each of their thighs. 

“You’re no fun, Bats.”

Bruce feels a tap on his back and turns to see a sweating man with his fist drawn back. Bruce slams his fist into the man’s face and he stumbles backwards. Joker sticks out a leg and the man trips over it, falling backwards in a heap.

“Why are you helping me?” Batman demands.

“I’m not _helping_ you, I’m just having a bit of fun.” 

It is shocking how _easy_ it is to fight alongside Joker rather than against him. Their countless battles have made them intimately familiar with each other and Bruce can anticipate Joker’s movements like they’re his own.

There is an elegant effortlessness to it Bruce that has never experienced before and he knew, as much as he hated it, the next time he was alone in a similar situation he would miss the way it almost feels like he is fighting with two bodies instead of one.

The last goon throws a punch at Joker’s face and he catches it easily, twisting the man’s arm over his shoulder until Batman hears a sickening crack. 

The man screams and Joker drops him, then steps lightly over him. 

“Well, Batsy, I’ll be off! I’m sure you have plenty of interrogating to do and I’ve already overstayed my welcome. This was fun though, let’s do it again sometime!”

He winks and bounces back down the alley, disappearing into the shadows.

The goon with the dislocated shoulder is groaning on the ground.

Batman crouches over him. 

“The cops won’t be here for another ten minutes. Before then you’re going to tell me everything you know about Scarecrow’s operation,” Batman says.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just keep the Joker away from me!”

Well, that one is new. 

Another perk, he pointedly reminds himself, that he would _not_ be getting used to.

…

Despite his exhaustion, Bruce struggles to get to sleep that night. 

It’s early afternoon when he wakes with a jolt, leftover adrenaline strumming through him. He blinks in the hot sunlight for a moment before his dreams wash over him and he turns to groan into his pillow. The memory slips away like fast-fading daylight, leaving only an unsettling presence in the back of his mind and around the back of his throat. 

_Was it him?_

He reaches, hesitantly, feeling through the murky darkness to see if Joker is lurking there, in the dripping memories of his dreams. It is him; he can feel him there, around the edges of his memory. He remembers a pale face.

A wide smile.

The sensation of hair through his fingers, pulling, and-

Bruce buries his face deeper into the pillow, letting the darkness drag him back down a little bit longer, feeling his muscles relax.

He sees the swish of a purple coat. If he follows, maybe he can get back, can remember what is slipping away….

There is something more, a feeling that aches like an overused muscle desperate to be stretched, tested. Something right there, if he could only remember a little more, something he _needs_ , something that makes his stomach flip, was it hands, no lips on his–

A rough smirking voice, _let’s pick up where we left off shall we?_

Bruce’s eyes shoot open. He is almost fully hard. He sits up in bed and presses his palms to his eyes until red spots appear. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, throws a nearby robe on, and heads to the bathroom for a shower. 

As he disrobed and jumped, in a slim purple outline shimmers at the edge of his mind like the light of a boat through thick ocean fog, and if he could just remember a little bit more–

Bruce turns the shower dial as cold as it goes.


	4. Chapter 4

Gordon schedules the bust for a Tuesday night. 

Batman had dutifully reported Scarecrow’s possible location to Gordon and stood down, allowing the GCPD to take down the operation without his assistance.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be standing by in case things go awry.

Scarecrow seems to have set up his base in a disused factory in the Fashion District so Batman stations himself on the low rooftop of a tight-knit apartment building where he can watch the raid happen. 

The building is in a quiet part of the city near Miller Harbor. He feels the salty breeze puncture the late August humidity left from recent rain. It edges through the seams of his suit, cool like wet grass just before dawn. 

The damp rust on the chain link fences below leaves a metallic smell like blood stinging in the air.

The police vans start to line up the next street down and tactical teams in black uniforms move together towards the different entry points of the building. 

This time, he isn’t surprised when he hears someone clanking up the fire escape on the opposite side of the roof.

Footsteps approach him from behind, accompanied by disjointed and tuneless humming. Batman tenses but doesn’t move.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Batman grunts.

“Things get around in this town, you know that,” Joker says. “If ol’ straw-for-brains is gonna get busted, I want a front row seat.” He snickers to himself. “Not like you to stand by and watch. You’re normally the first one in for these kinds of parties.”

Batman is silent.

“Guess you gotta give those badges something to do every so often. Still, you seem a bit off your game lately, Batsy. That Gordon didn’t sideline you, did he?”

Anger prickles at Bruce.

“No,” he says.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me this is enough for you. Sitting around and watching. Playing the normal citizen. That you don’t need anything more,” Joker looks at him, standing near enough to touch him now.

Bruce keeps staring straight ahead.

Joker smirks and looks out at Gotham.

“That’s what I thought.”

He looks down at his gloved hand, as if inspecting his nails.

“In that case, shall we pick up where we left off?”

The hand gripping the knife plunging toward his chest is more of an invitation than a threat. 

Batman reacts, letting instinct takeover. He parries the knife and jumps back, anticipating Joker’s incoming kick. He doesn’t anticipate the flower on his lapel, which he squeezes, cackling as Bruce tumbles back onto the ground to avoid the jet of acid green chemicals that narrowly misses his face. 

Joker is on him instantly but Bruce is ready for him, his foot slamming up into Joker’s rib cage with a dull thud, knocking the air out of him. He dives forward, gripping the man’s shoulders as he hurls him into the dirty concrete that crunches beneath them like tires on gravel.

The energy between them is more familiar to Bruce than his own name.

Joker’s eyes are bright and excited and his laughter is incessant, boiling over the top and preventing him from catching his breath. Bruce has Joker pinned so he takes a moment to breathe, which is precisely when Joker slips his leg between Bruce’s thighs and flips him over in a complicated roll, landing on top of Bruce. 

“Now, are you gonna be a good boy or–”

Bruce rocks up against Joker, pushing himself forward with one hand and using his momentum to aim an undercut at his chin. 

Joker twists out of the way easily and before Bruce can blink, his fingers are tapping the silver edge of a blade to his throat.

They are both sitting up now, legs tangled, their faces close enough that their breaths mingle. Joker holds the back of the cowl with one hand, the other sliding down his exposed neck. Everywhere Joker presses against him floods with heat, their thighs burning together, the left side of his chest pressing into him, as if the other man’s body was pulling his very atoms into motion. 

Joker drags the edge of the knife downwards. 

“I wish we didn’t–” Joker stops mid-sentence. 

Bruce’s entire body burns with _want._

He gives one last effort to take all that need and push it as deeply into himself as he can. But it fails to stop the warmth from rising through his bloodstream, flushing his face in the darkness.

Just for a few moments, he could let himself pretend he doesn’t have a choice. 

He is still as Joker kisses him, pressing the side of the knife harder into his throat as he presses his lips with bruising force onto Bruce’s. Bruce pushes back, pushes back with everything he has, the ferociousness of the fight bleeding into the kiss.

He needs to be engulfed in him, closer than any punch could bring them, to drown in him, to let himself be torn apart by him. 

And  _ oh God_, to let him take and take and–

The hand behind Bruce’s head is working at the bottom of the cowl, gently tugging it up. Bruce tenses momentarily but keeps his hands firmly on the concrete as Joker tugs it over his head. 

The cool night air rushes through his sweaty hair, making goosebumps crawl over his skin. Joker cards his fingers through his hair and Bruce holds back a moan.

“Bats,” Joker whispers in between sloppy kisses, their lips sickeningly wet, sliding against each other with fervor. “Bats, Bats, Bats.” 

He pulls back a moment to pull his gloves off with his teeth before flinging them aside and Bruce squirms at the spike of arousal the sight sends through him.

Joker grips Bruce’s face and his hand is shockingly cold against Bruce’s flushed skin. He rubs his thumb over Bruce’s cheekbone, pressing hard as if he could push the skin away like how he took off the cowl.

Bruce turns his face away from his hand only to have Joker grip his chin and yank it toward him again, growling as he kisses Bruce again and Bruce feels a shudder ripple through his body.

It was so _good._ He doesn’t want to be Batman, he doesn't want to be Bruce, he just wants to be used, for Joker to take anything he wants from him. 

Bruce surges forward into the kiss and he feels Joker smirk lightly against his lips as he redoubles the grip on his chin, tilting it up and changing the angle of the kiss so he can thrust his tongue into Bruce’s mouth. He moans and opens his mouth wider for Joker and, as his tongue licks over his canines, trailing over his gums, dizzying heat engulfs him.

Joker’s hand works its way down the suit, searching for an entrance and Bruce’s head is swimming with a ferocious entanglement of adrenaline and need.

Joker suddenly pushes Bruce’s shoulders back and he hits the concrete hard. The knife is now at the edge of the suit and Bruce experiences a stab of anxiety as Joker’s hand disappears under the kevlar plates. But a moment later he hears the sound of fabric ripping and realizes he is cutting him out of the suit.

This would be one to explain to Alfred.

Joker tugs bits of his suit away now, discarding them across the roof impatiently. Finally, Bruce feels the cool night air brushing over his right hip. He jolts as fingers trace the outline of his hard cock through fabric.

And then Joker’s mouth is on Bruce’s cock and Bruce’s head flies back, eyes shutting tight against the overwhelming sensation of warmth and wet.

He glances down and the sight of green hair bobbing up and down makes him groan and close his eyes again. He can feel the arrogant asshole smirking around his cock.

Joker keeps up a steady pace, taking Bruce deeper and deeper with each wet slide up and down until Bruce feels the head of his cock hit the back of Joker’s throat. He stills for a moment, humming slightly and sending vibrations through Bruce. 

Bruce feels his cock spasm and a feeling like a wet harp being plucked cascades through his groin.

Joker pulls off of him with a salacious pop. 

He crawls back up Bruce’s body, grabbing hold of his wrists and slamming them over Bruce’s head. With his other hand he reaches down and fumbles around between them for a moment. Then Bruce hears Joker let out a small breath and suddenly his hand is wrapped around both their cocks. The sudden heat and the realization that Joker’s cock is against his sends his brain into overdrive, arousal scrambling any coherent thoughts he had left.

Joker is breathing heavy into his shoulder, still holding Bruce’s wrists over his head with one hand. Bruce nudges at Joker’s forehead with his chin until the man looks up at him.

Bruce licks his lips.

Then Joker’s mouth is on his, kissing him with bruising need, forcing his head back onto the cement until his skull aches. Joker takes every inch of him, his mouth urgent and insistent on Bruce’s lips, carding their fingers together above him. His cock is hot and heavy against Bruce’s own, bringing them both closer with every stroke. He wants Joker to press into him, bury him until nothing exists but the man above him, sinking into his skeleton like cement being poured. 

The intoxicating sensation of his blissfully empty mind reverberates through him and suddenly the heat in his cock reaches a breaking point and he’s coming, spilling into Joker’s hand as serotonin and oxytocin pulse through his brain, slow and lethargic, like spilled molasses. 

He hadn’t realized the world was muted until sound returns in a wave and he hears Joker cry out against his neck. The other man's cum drips down between them. Joker collapses on Bruce, releasing his wrists and bringing his arm down to stretch across Bruce’s chest.

His body is warm and perfectly heavy, settled against his. Bruce feels a relaxation he hadn’t felt in months, no– years, settle deep into his bones. 

Bruce watches Joker’s shadowy profile. The man is uncharacteristically still, his constant energy quieted for once, save for the gentle tap-tap-tap of fingertips against his pale hip. 

“You know… I think about killing you all the time,” Joker says.

Bruce speaks quietly.

“So do I.”

“You think about me killing you?”

Bruce tilts his head toward him.

“No,” Bruce says. 

Joker’s eyes shine for a moment before he looks away. Staring across at the city skyline, he says, “I think I’d miss you too much.”

For a single clear moment, Bruce feels keening, overwhelming adoration plunge sharp into his chest, smooth as a knife’s edge.

And he _can’t._

Joker hums into his chest, laying his head flat against him.

“I was thinking about letting the animals out at Gotham Zoo. What do you think? I always thought Robinson Park could do with a few lions,” he says lazily. 

“This is wrong.”

Joker lifts his head up and looks at Bruce.

“Wow, you really know just what to say to make a girl feel appreciated.”

Bruce uses his elbows to sit up and Joker slides off of him, sitting on the ground next to him. Joker tucks himself back into his pants as Bruce tends to the tattered remains of his suit as best he can.

Batman gets to his feet.

“It’s my job to stop you, not–”

“Get your dick sucked by me?” Joker laughs, a bitter note unmistakable in the sound.

“No, I–”

“No, of course, _Brucie,_ you didn’t want any of this did you? As long as big bad Joker is pinning you down, it’s not your fault if you get off with my hand around your cock.”

They are both standing now and Joker glowers at him.

“What I don’t get,” Joker laughs sharply, “Is that  _ you _ chose to show me your face. I was fine just doing what we were doing forever, but you’re the one who changed it all.  _ You  _ wanted more.”

“I didn’t want–” 

"I play along with your little game," spits out Joker. He pulls a knife out of his coat and points it at Batman. "Pretending you don't want it too, pretending to force you–"

"Don't," growls Batman.

"So you can be a coward and you don't have to face actually wanting someone like me." Some of the anger in Joker's voice gives way to a quiet, desperate note. He takes a breath and steps forward. "I’ll be the monster if that's the only way... but is that what you actually want?"

Bruce feels dizzy, like the surrounding skyscrapers are lengthening, shooting up into the air around them. The knife in Joker’s hand lowers and Bruce wishes it wouldn’t, he wishes it wouldn’t, he wishes Joker would press the sharp blade against his chest and just take, and take, and take-

_ Please don't make me decide, not yet, not now. _

Joker steps back, frustration rigid in his posture.

“This wasn’t ever going to be natural for me,” Joker snarls. “But I–” 

It looks like the words are painful and gritty in his mouth.

“For you, I thought I could – not  _ change _ but, just do things a little bit differently.” Joker looks up coldly at him. “Clearly I was wrong. The way we are is eternal.” 

Joker fingers the blade of his knife until Bruce sees blood trickle down his fingertip. 

Joker turns away from Bruce and continues, “The whole world could burn and it would still just be you and I,” he walks to the side of the roof, “in the same orbit but,” he stops at the edge, “always out of reach.”

He jumps over the side of the roof and Bruce hears the clang of feet hitting the fire escape below.

His comms crackle. Jim Gordon’s voice comes through.

“You can stand down, we got Scarecrow.”

He hits the switch to open the line.

“Copy Commissioner.”

“Thanks for having our backs tonight. This wouldn’t have been possible without you, you know.”

Guilt is a familiar friend, reaching out a hand in the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce tells Alfred he will be making an appearance as Bruce Wayne at a nightclub in Gotham Central and will be spending the night in the penthouse.

“Do enjoy yourself, Master Bruce.”

“You know me Alfred, life of the party.” Bruce tries to ignore the way Alfred’s genuine smile makes his stomach churn.

Spending the night at the penthouse again is unquestionably insane. So Bruce doesn’t question it. He heads to the sleaziest night club in the area that wouldn’t be too unusual for him to make an appearance at and starts drinking. 

After their argument on the roof, Joker had been uncharacteristically quiet and it worried Bruce. He had gone two weeks without a single appearance and the media was stirring up a frenzy making guesses about his possible plans and reporting questionable sightings. The next person to leave their home in a purple coat would likely be hung, drawn and quartered.

Earlier in the day, Bruce made sure his plans for the evening’s entertainment were spread around the Wayne Enterprises office, reliably assuring that word of his plans would get around Gotham as usual.

He has a few drinks, chats with a few passing business associates, and most importantly, leaves with the most beautiful woman in the room, only to make a work-related emergency excuse and have her taken home by his driver.

He finds the door unlocked when he arrives at the penthouse.

A shiver crawls up his spine.

He opens the door carefully, unsure of what to expect. An immediate attack? A trap already set in place? His body thrums with familiar anticipation.

Bruce creeps through the darkened rooms, avoiding the swaths of moonlight bathing the hardwood floor in a shiny glow. It’s as if his body knows where to go and for once, Bruce lets his mind be silent.

His feet move robotically until he finds himself in his bedroom. 

The flurry of movement to his right registers with plenty of time for a defensive maneuver, but Bruce lets his body go loose instead of tensing for a fight.

His back hits the frame of the door with a gratifying thud as his arms are suddenly full of a purple and green blaze _. _

Joker is on his tiptoes, his nose nearly brushing Bruce’s. He leans forward, at the last moment diverting his lips to Bruce’s ear.

“I just can’t seem to stay away from you,” he whispers.

There is a moment, a millisecond maybe, where Joker’s eyes are not a blaze. They’re a woodland you’re lost in, a lonely embrace of soaring oak and pine from which there is no escape and Bruce tries, he tries  _ desperately_, not to feel anything. 

Joker steps back and lets a knife slide out of his jacket sleeve. His smile is deadly.

“Get on the fucking bed,” he points with the tip. Bruce obeys, crawling up the king size bed towards the pillows but Joker jumps forward and yanks Bruce’s ankles down, leaping onto the bed and pinning him down. He uses his knife to cut Bruce’s shirt off, ripping the fabric away with feral ease. 

Joker’s hand snakes over Bruce’s hip and bumps against his straining erection, making Bruce squirm.

“Ooh, dirty Brucie,” Joker says, his breath hot on his ear. The words send an uncomfortable jolt through him. “You love it when I throw you around like you’re nothing, don’t you?”

Joker hums to himself as he runs the tip of the knife down Bruce’s back. Goosebumps blaze down his flesh where the cold steel had been. Joker runs his hand over them, his fingers icy against Bruce’s skin.

He hears the Joker taking off his own shirt before he leans over Bruce again, his chest flush with Bruce’s back. The achingly right sensation of frigid skin against hot flesh overwhelms Bruce, a suffocating equilibrium between them.

Joker traces a single finger down Bruce’s throat before holding the blade there.

An intoxicating mix of dopamine and adrenaline flood his system in equal measure, making his blood sing. Bruce submerges himself in his vulnerability. No more decisions, no more fight. A euphoria of defeat.

But as Joker replaces the cold steel edge with his lips, hot and insistent against Bruce’s neck, the feeling doesn’t fade. Joker kisses his way up Bruce’s shoulders, and Bruce soaks in the way his body stays pliant, as if he’s just a passenger.

He is so  _ tired, _so tired of keeping everything within the lines, keeping every edge of himself clipped and tightened, every seam plastered and polished, keeping himself contained within the thin lines of Batman, of Bruce Wayne, of everything he had to live up to and could never be. 

Joker traces his outline with his mouth, biting at his shoulders, his arms, and Bruce lets their edges spill together.

He rolls over gently, so he’s looking up at Joker and, soaking in the momentary surprise in the other man’s eyes, surges up to kiss him. He lets the strands of green hair choke his vision, let those red lips devour him, and sinks into the other man.

Moving as one, they shift towards the headboard, Bruce now propped up against the pillows. Bruce drinks in the little noises Joker makes from on top of him, his legs now shifted to wrap his knees around Bruce's hips, bringing them closer together, warmth blooming from where Joker sits in his lap. 

Joker tightens his grip on Bruce's chin and dives in, taking control of the kiss and deepening it, the eagerness from before kindling into a raging fire. His lips press bruisingly hard into Bruce's and Bruce pushes back, until he feels Joker's tongue flicking across his lower lip. 

Bruce eases up, his lips parting slightly, and he rubs his hands up Joker's back, pulling him closer by his shoulder blades. Joker hesitantly swipes his tongue in between Bruce's lips, an echo of the way he licks his own lips when he's spent too much time talking and not enough time fighting. Bruce opens his mouth wider and Joker slides his tongue in smoothly, the wet, heavy feeling of their tongues colliding forcing a groan out of Bruce's throat. 

There is a distant clatter and Joker's burning hands are sliding over his cool chest, leaving trails of heat that Bruce is sure will glow in the dark room. Bruce's hands instinctively come to rest around the lithe man's waist, his thumbs rubbing at his sides. 

Joker shifts his weight in Bruce's lap and Bruce's intake of breath doesn’t go unheard. Joker's face lights up in a devious smile and he promptly grinds down onto Bruce. Not one to give in so easily, he tilts his hips up so Joker can feel Bruce pressing up into him. Joker's warm fingers slide down Bruce's side until they come to rest on the seam of his boxers. 

He exhales sharply as Joker's fingers slip under the seam for a moment and his face shoots up to look at Bruce, an unreadable expression visible in the dim light. Bruce looks into those dark eyes and they take up all the space in his head.

Bruce tilts his hips up in an infinitesimal movement and Joker isn’t quick enough to hide the surprise that still flashes through his eyes during each encounter. Bruce swallows a lump in his throat that he doesn’t care to think too much about and is grateful when Joker's long fingers slide under the seam of his underwear, cooling his heated skin. 

Joker leans forward, resting his chin on Bruce's shoulder as his hand explores further downwards. Bruce's eyes fly shut as he tilts his head back, biting his lip against the sounds threatening to escape him. Joker wraps his hand around the base of Bruce's cock and Bruce can’t hide the intake of breath at the sensation of the other man's hand. Joker begins to move his hand torturously slowly, up and down, giving him too much and not enough.

He can feel Joker’s breath hot on his ear as they breathe together, Joker coaxing little noises out of the back of Bruce’s throat with every slick movement of his hand. Joker pulls back for a moment to look at Bruce and the man’s normally acid-blazing eyes are overtaken with the blackness of his pupils, evergreen borders still visible.

Joker catches Bruce's mouth in a searing kiss, pushing up against him, and Bruce's head bumps against the headboard. Bruce's fingers come around to work at the buttons of Joker's pants, hurriedly pulling at them. A low growl builds at the back of his throat and he impatiently yanks them off the rest of the way.

Oh, of course.

A garish yellow bat signal pattern covers his boxers, and Bruce must have made a face because Joker dissolves into giggles on top of him. He shimmies his hips a little in front of Bruce, in between laughs. "You like?" 

Bruce grunts and reaches forward to run his hands down Joker's sides, curiously. He is thinner than Bruce but lean muscle ripples as Joker shudders under his touch, head leaning back slightly as he hums with pleasure. Bruce's hands slip down to the ridiculous boxers and slide them down, Joker wiggling out of them the rest of the way.

A tiny whine at the back of his head starts, like a distant teapot whistling more and more loudly, a constant stream of  _ You can't do this, you can't do this, it's him, think of what he's done, think of–  _ Bruce's breathing gets heavier as he tries to clear his head, tries to remember the knife-

Joker reaches down and grasps both of their cocks in his hand.

The voice effectively silenced, Bruce reaches up to run his hands through the green hair, his mouth going to Joker's neck where he roughly grazes his teeth over the pale, almost blue, skin. Joker increases the speed of his hand and they both breathe together, their lips meeting. Joker breathes out words between the sloppy kisses, his voice wrecked, "Please, need – you."

Bruce pulls back, his eyes darkening. Joker stares up at him with glassy eyes, the paranormal shimmer of his skin making him dreamlike in Bruce's already blurry vision. 

Bruce lunges forward and pushes Joker's shoulders hard into the bed, the smaller man's head slamming down an inch below the footboard. The giggling is back now, wickedly gleeful, and Joker tilts his head sideways to look as Bruce reaches in a dresser drawer. His mouth splits into a surprised smile as Bruce pulls out a bottle of lubricant, working the cap off. Joker wiggles his hips in anticipation and Bruce roughly yanks his ankles, pulling him closer to him. 

Violent need seeps out of Bruce’s every movement and Joker feeds off of it. He gives a delighted giggle; the rougher Bruce becomes, the more joy it seems to bring him. 

Curiosity getting the better of his need, Bruce traces his fingers down Joker's thigh, observing the little gasps and whines that the man unashamedly lets out as he runs his fingertips over his legs. Bruce coats two fingers in lube and slides his hand down to Joker's entrance, the smaller man now squirming against his hand in anticipation. Bruce leans over him, his other hand supporting him so he can see Joker's face as he carefully slides them inside. 

Joker is rapturous, his eyes rolling back and his eyelids fluttering as he grasps the bedsheets, "Aah Brucie, god, Brucie baby please," Joker moans. Bruce lowers his other arm onto his elbow so he can press against him, catching Joker's lips in a kiss between the keening noises he makes with every thrust of Bruce's fingers. Bruce scissors his fingers for a moment before adding his third, making Joker throw his head back, the long strip of pale neck exposed for Bruce to cover in bruises. Always marking each other up every time they meet.

Joker is sweating lightly, giving little shaky moans and Bruce begins to lift himself off him, but Joker catches his neck in his hands, touching his face shakily.

"Please, please, Batsy, I need- I need you," Joker gasps out and Bruce pulls his fingers out, leaving Joker wrecked and boneless. Joker watches, twitching, as Bruce applies a thick coat of lubricant to his cock.

Joker is watching him fixedly, quiet for once, his eyes impossibly hungry. Bruce leans forward over Joker, pulling the smaller man's knees up, poised over his entrance. They are both completely still for a moment, a heady feeling of finality and culmination thick in the room. 

Bruce slowly pushes inside Joker and they both gasp. Bruce lowers his head to rest on Joker's shoulder as he sinks deeper into the man, who lets out a high pitched whine that breaks off into a stream of words as Bruce lies still inside him, the warmth around him blinding.

Joker is pleading desperately now, his mouth a constant stream of, "Please, please, Bats, please, need–" that Bruce silences with a kiss, ignoring the way his wrecked voice pulls at his heart. Bruce cups his cheek with his hand, almost afraid Joker will break apart, his desperation coming off him in waves. If Bruce had known this need was what was under the tireless plotting and unfailing grin, a need Bruce knew, that he understood so completely–

Bruce stops thinking and begins to move. Joker lets out a cry and his hands fly up to grip Bruce's shoulders, fingernails digging into his back as Bruce thrusts in and out slowly. 

"Batsy, oh god Batsy, mine, you're mine, always, always you," Joker whispers, his body jolting with every snap of Bruce's hips, his eyes glossy. Bruce's mind is blissfully blank, the rhythm of his hips, the building heat so close to the edge. He reaches down to slide his hand up Joker's cock, pumping it quickly and Joker gasps against his lips as he comes. Bruce can feel nothing but pure, hot pleasure throughout his entire body as he quickly follows, his orgasm ripping through him with one final thrust deep into Joker. 

He collapses onto the smaller man but feeling the sticky cum on his and Joker's stomach, he hastily grabs a tissue and cleans them up before pulling the boneless Joker up to the top of the bed by his shoulders. They collapse back together, Joker curled against his side, still and quiet.

It is surprisingly... gentle. 

As if all their aggression had been spent in the years of punching and kicking, stabbing and slashing, suddenly Bruce isn’t sure he could muster the strength to push the smaller man away even if he tried. All the tension has seeped out of his bones and he doesn’t have the willpower to even attempt to move his nemesis off him before he drifts off, letting the flood of dopamine wash over him, the sensation of fingers tracing over his chest drifting away into nothingness.

The knife lays on the floor, forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

Bruce wakes up suddenly, all of his muscles tensing at once. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep and is shocked that he had managed to drift off at all. The almost comedic disbelief blends with hysterical horror.

An awkward morning after with the Joker. 

Dawn is almost fully risen, the glaring sunbeams topping off the horrible cliché of facing up to your choices in the keen, unforgiving daylight. Joker lies with his back curled against Bruce’s side and Bruce thrusts the idea of them spooning out of his mind before it can fully form. 

He extricates himself with careful precision. Once his feet are on the floor, he chances a look over his shoulder. Joker is still sleeping, hair spread out over the pillow. Or he’s faking it. Either way, Bruce dresses silently and slips out of the penthouse.

The concrete of the street feels solid under his shoes, hard and grounding while the steady daytime buzz of the city is just starting up. If Joker wakes up while Bruce is gone there isn’t much damage he could do. The apartment is categorically Bruce Wayne’s; Batman rarely frequented it and it held no equipment other than a first aid kit. 

Still, Bruce is starting to regret his abrupt decision to leave Joker alone for this long. He doesn’t think Joker would advertise his presence, based on the secrecy with which he had already protected Batman's identity. But he can’t begin to imagine the hell he would face if the media stumbled across the fact that Joker was seen leaving the penthouse of Bruce Wayne in the early hours of the morning.  _ What Alfred would think. _

Bruce’s walk was mindless, but he now finds himself in front of a small bakery. He knows he has to deal with the ludicrous situation he’s in while trying to put off the moment where Joker got back to terrorizing the city for as long as possible. Hopefully, at least until after he had a strong cup of coffee. 

***

Apprehension builds in his hands and up the back of his neck as he turns the key in the latch. The wide sunny living room opens up into a kitchen with bar seating which is mercifully devoid of life. Joker isn’t in the main living space yet so hopefully that means he isn’t awake yet. 

Bruce tiptoes through the house to the bedroom and peers through the doorway, his eyes falling on Joker’s sleeping form. His long pale limbs are a tangle in the white sheets, his green hair splaying out across the pillow like spilled paint.

Joker stirs cartoonishly, as though woken by the smell of coffee and pastries wafting across the room. 

The clown takes a deep sniff, rolling over in the sheets before sitting up, his eyes falling on Bruce. Joker’s eyes light up with delight as he spots the bag in Bruce’s hand.

“Brucie baby, did you get us breakfast? My goodness, I guess that butler did teach you manners after all.”

Joker sits up and stretches his arms over his head and the sheets slide down his pale chest, pooling around his waist. Bruce quickly turns away and heads back to the kitchen, where he can still keep Joker in his line of sight. 

He walks around the bar, glancing up to see Joker twisting his back in a stretch before curling, catlike. Joker throws off the sheet and starts rummaging for his boxers.

Bruce busies himself with placing the assortment of pastries on plates while Joker ambles toward the bar in just those boxers, the sheet draped around his shoulders dragging dramatically across the floor.

Bruce’s movements are uncharacteristically fluid and casual. This is the way he feels at Wayne Enterprises parties or on interviews sets, not the way he acts at home or around Alfred. Being Bruce Wayne right now lets him stay alert and control his every movement without looking like he’s ready for a fight.

Joker swaggers up to take a seat at the counter, the only person in the world that could appear comfortable in his underwear around someone that regularly beats the shit out of him.

“I didn’t know if you liked coffee,” Bruce pushes the nondescript coffee toward Joker.

“Love it. Sugar?” 

Bruce pushes a jar of sugar toward Joker. Joker pops the lid off the coffee and proceeds to dump half the jar in his cup. 

“Spoon?” Joker asks innocently.

Bruce hands him one wordlessly before turning to put the kettle on, determined to hide the amused smile that pulls at the corners of his lips.

There was a quiet whine of  _ this is crazy, this is crazy, _ on repeat in his mind that he forcefully tries to silence. The Joker, the criminal he had put behind bars more than any other, was sitting in his underwear, drinking absurdly sweet coffee in Bruce Wayne’s penthouse.

“You gonna get that?”

The shrill scream of the kettle pops into his awareness and he hastens to turn the stove off. Joker eyes him but says nothing.

Bruce sets the plate of pastries in front of Joker, who digs in voraciously. Bruce realizes with a jolt he had never seen Joker eat before. It was oddly… normal. With Joker distracted, Bruce lets his eyes drift over the other man while he sips his tea. 

The domesticity is jarringly strange: Joker's green hair is tangled in an impressive sex-hair bedhead double act and there are some lines from the creases in the pillow on his face. Joker lifts his eyes to meet Bruce's as he slips his fingers one by one into his mouth to clean the sugar off them, pulling them out with a pop and wiggling his eyebrows flirtatiously.

"I hope you're not planning on trying to turn me in, that wouldn't be polite morning-after etiquette." Joker begins laughing, "Billionaire Bruce Wayne Hero After Turning In Murderous One Night Stand; the press would have a field day."

Joker is right. There is no way he could turn in Joker without his suit, and no way he could get to his suit without giving Joker ample opportunity to make a run for it. He pretends it isn’t an easy excuse.

They look at each other. 

“Well,” Joker abruptly pushes his chair back and stands up. “Thanks for the sweets, sweetheart, but I’ll have to be going now.” 

He looks at Bruce, his smile somehow serious and playful at the same time.

“I’m going to rob the Jewelry Exchange on 117th and 3rd tonight. Come stop me.”

Joker walks toward the bedroom, presumably to collect his discarded clothing. 

“Make sure you–” Bruce starts to call out after him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave the same way I came,” Joker tosses over his shoulder.

Bruce stands, nonplussed. It strikes him how incredibly irresponsible it is to just unleash Joker upon Gotham, knowingly and willingly. 

But maybe, just maybe, he’s unleashing something slightly different than what the city expects.

***

He is out of the cave before dusk is fully settled across Gotham.

The reflective buildings are an acrid pink as beams of sunlight slice through the thick city haze. He keeps to the lengthening shadows of the building as he makes his way to 117th and 3rd.

The upper east side Jewelry Exchange is no mom-and-pop shop. Despite being in an affluent area, it is heavily fortified. There is only one entrance leading out onto the street and security officers posted at the door at all times.

Batman settles himself into the shadows of a nearby roof and begins to wait.

And wait.

An hour goes by. And then another. He wonders if he just got stood up. _ Like a date. _

This is, absolutely, not a date. This is Batman preventing crime. And the faint sensation of disappointment creeping through his chest is simply concern that he’d missed the break-in attempt already.

A couple of workmen in hard hats and vests are at the door now. They are wheeling a long dolly with two large boxes on it forward, before speaking momentarily with the guard. The shop is about to close, but the guard steps aside and the two men wheel the dolly through the door.

Batman narrows his eyes. 

He pitches over the edge of the building, expanding his cape to land with a dull thud in the alley next to the building. He stays in the shadows for a moment longer; he needs to be sure before he bursts in that Joker would really try something this–

Three workers run out of the entrance, all screaming. 

–ridiculous.

Several other well-dressed employees sprint out the door, their jobs not worth dealing with whatever is going on in there. 

Batman shoulders his way through the group of people quickly gathering on the other side of the street and runs into the building.

The two men who had wheeled in the dolly are behind the glass counters, swiping the bracelets, necklaces, and rings littering the shelves into black duffel bags.

The dolly of boxes sits untouched, suspiciously stationed in the center of the room.

“Oh shit, look.” The taller of the two elbows his friend, whose round face immediately breaks into a sweat under his yellow hard hat when he looks up and sees Batman.

The boxes in the center of the room twitch. 

Suddenly one of the boxes explodes open, packing peanuts flying in every direction. Joker stands up, brushing styrofoam off himself before glancing coyly up at Batman.

“Hi.” 

His eyes are bright and his smile is that of a bashful schoolboy.

He has switched his clothes up from his normal worn purple overcoat to a shorter, but no less purple, suit jacket with long, sleek coat tails. His shirt and tie are more polished, practically unworn.  _ Because it’s a date,  _ says a voice in Bruce’s head. 

Bruce mentally groans.

This is absolutely  _ not _ a date.

“Boss, we didn’t know you were coming,” says the round-faced man.

Joker spares a glance at the two goons.

“Couldn’t trust you not to let the cat out of the bag, could I?”

“You’re not stealing anything from this place, Joker,” Batman says, keeping his voice firm.

“Oh, yeah? And who’s gonna stop me?” Joker takes a step forward.

“Tell your men to stand down.”

Joker steps forward again, getting into Bruce’s personal space.

“You tell them,” he whispers, giving Bruce a salacious smile. 

Batman glances over to look at the men, concerned they will notice how close Joker is standing to him, but they’re having their own discussion.

“Mike, no, that’s a really fucking bad idea–”

“Listen, if we take this clown out, we don’t just get a cut–”

“Mike, no–”

The taller man, Mike, pulls a handgun out of his pants and steps around the counter. Bruce’s blood turns to ice.

Mike advances on Joker, the gun aimed at his chest.

“How about we do you a big favor, Batman, get this lunatic off the streets once and for all. And in exchange you just let us walk out of here.”

Joker bursts out laughing. 

“Oh boys,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes, “You really do  _ not _ want to do that.” 

“What are you gonna do about it?” Mike asks. “You don’t even have a gu-”

Batman is on him before he can finish the sentence. 

He slams into the man and, though he is broad shouldered, he goes crashing to the floor, not expecting the attack from the side. 

In that moment Bruce is a live wire, frayed and crackling, a lethal current that spills out into the soft, unarmored skin in front of him. He punches the man’s unshaven jaw and blood sprays from his mouth. Batman grabs the front of his shirt and throws him into the counter, his shoulders crashing through the glass. 

The gun lays a few feet from where the man leans against the remains of the counter.

_ Reach for it, _ a voice in the back of Bruce’s head sings,  _ let him see what happens, let him try. _

Joker jumps forward, landing in a crouch in front of Mike and he kicks the gun away from him. He takes Mike’s chin in his hand and tilts his face side to side, inspecting the damage.

“No, I don’t have a gun,” Joker giggles. “But I do have a Batman.” 

Sirens echo wail outside as red and blue lights flash through the windows.

“Oops, that’s my cue, Batsy.” 

Joker leaps up and sprints to the door, Mike’s discarded duffel bag slung across his shoulder.

He glances over his shoulder.

“Catch me if you can, darling,” he winks and whisks out the front door. 

Batman leaps after him. The cops are just getting out of the two cars that pulled up and look in confusion as Batman plunges after the green and purple blur that flew up the alley. 

Batman calls over his shoulder, “Two robbers, armed!” and then leaps up the fire escape, his eyes on the purple coat tails that disappear over the edge of the roof. He bounds up the stairs five at a time and pulls himself over the top of the roof where he was originally staking out the exchange from.

Joker is already across the roof and gives him a little wave before leaping across to the next building. Batman sprints after him. The adrenaline from his previous anger pumps through his blood, making his steps faster and more powerful while the cool night air clears his head.

When he leaps over the gap between the two buildings, it feels more like flying than it ever normally does.

He chases the echoing laughter across the rooftops of Gotham, feeling aware of each muscle in his body and each powerful bound that allows him to just about catch up to the clown.

Joker turns around, continuing to step backwards as his mouth opens to say something to Bruce–

– until he falls spectacularly, his eyes bulging comedically as his hands shoot into the air and he flies backwards onto the ground.

_ Idiot,  _ Bruce thinks, not slowing down.

And then he’s crashing down, directly on top of Joker, his foot caught on a  _ very _ poorly marked step.

Joker’s head is already thrown back in laughter, cackling mercilessly. He clutches his sides, tears already welling up in his eyes and Bruce begins to laugh too, the hilarity of the situation catching up to him faster than he can catch his breath. Soon he’s ducking his head onto Joker’s shoulder, the uncontrollable laughter making them both breathless.

Bruce finally rolls off Joker, collapsing onto the ground beside him and breathing heavily. His ribs ache from laughter, the satisfying feeling of an unfamiliar muscle stretched for the first time. 

"See this," Joker says between gasps. "This is what I want for you."

Joker leans towards him as their laughter slows. "To let go of all this," he gestures broadly with a swinging arm at the twinkling city lights, “to be free." 

Bruce looks at Joker’s bright eyes, almost luminescent in the amber wash of the city. His smile fades.

"I can't. Not your way,” Bruce sats quietly.

Joker's face is close to his. "It wasn’t until I found you that life meant something. Meant everything. I know you feel it too, I can see it in your eyes, when you’re him. When you’re with me.” 

He sits up suddenly, frustrated. “You’re still clinging to that other half, you just can’t let it go. But it’s all so meaningless, you must see that?”

“It’s not meaningless to them,” Bruce insists, sitting up to and pointing out at Gotham. “We have to respect that.”

Joker stands up, facing away from Bruce. 

Bruce speaks more quietly, "It doesn't have to be my way. It could be different. It just can’t be that."

He stands and tugs Joker’s shoulder, turning him so they’re face to face.

Yellow light from the grimy billboards washes over them. 

Bruce kisses him and tries to show him what he means. What he wants. What he can’t have. 

Joker kisses him back, lips moving achingly slowly together, and then pulls away.

“Like tides,” Joker glances up at the hazy night sky and the pale dot of the moon above them. “We’ll keep pulling at each other until we meet in the middle. Or until one of us breaks.” 

Bruce is quiet for a moment. 

“I don’t think either of us can ever break,” he says.

The look Joker gives him is a dull blade carving a hole into his heart.

“What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?” Joker says quietly, locking their gazes. It isn’t a question.

A devastating rush of affection engulfs Bruce. He wraps an arm around Joker’s waist and pulls him flush against his chest, tilting his head down to kiss the smaller man. His lips move slowly, need surging through his veins.

Joker's deft fingers stroke across his cheek, reverence in every movement as they pull each other tighter, desperate to get under each other’s skin. Bruce’s entire body aches to be closer and he kisses him furiously, backing Joker up against the wall. 

They slam against the brick together, and Bruce kisses Joker bruisingly hard. He runs his hands through Joker’s hair, his fingers pressing down his scalp. Joker nips at Bruce’s lower lip, drawing blood and Bruce gasps, pulling back for a moment.

The pain is caustic, incisive as a chemical burn. Every brush of his fingertips is a current, lightning both grounding and electrifying and Bruce–

Bruce wants the storm.

“Hit me,” he says.

Joker stills. “What did you say?”

Bruce tries to swallow around the weight lodged in his throat. 

“Hit me.” His voice is gravelly and tight.

Joker’s face is unreadable for a moment, an odd expression flicking across his features.

Then he punches Bruce in the jaw.

And with that they are  _ them  _ again, and it’s so familiar and so achingly right. 

The sting brings Bruce to life, his whole body waking up. All the electricity that had been buzzing in his veins suddenly surges into his muscles. They begin to wrestle, both men grinning wildly as they struggle to pin each other down, rolling over and over across the grimy concrete that felt more like Gotham, more like  _ home_, to both men than any house ever could. 

Joker’s laughter is different, infectious in a way it wasn’t before, and it makes Bruce warm inside. He doesn’t want it to ever stop.

Bruce dives forward and tackles Joker, landing a punch to his ribs, hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to break anything. He uses his other arm to pin one of Joker’s shoulders. Joker gives him a wide grin from underneath him, wiggling his eyebrows before trying to bite the arm Bruce is holding him with. Bruce pulls his arm away, but not before feeling the graze of lips and teeth on his arm.

Joker follows him up, gaining the upper hand as he reaches for Bruce’s throat, kneeing him in the stomach as they tumble down again. Bruce chokes as the ground knocks the air out of him and Joker’s hand tightens around his throat. He straddles Bruce, letting up on his neck enough so Bruce can gasp a breath before squeezing again, his eyes fiery and mischievous. The lack of air makes Bruce’s blood pump twice as fast, each touch feeling like fire licking his skin.

Sometimes there’s a flutter of almost deja-vu – like Bruce would know this man even if they’d never met, even if Bruce didn’t know his own name, even if the smooth pale skin in front of him was mangled and unrecognizable, Bruce knew he would remember what he should look like so clearly he could sew that smile back together again. 

Joker lets up on his neck and Bruce reaches up and traces his fingers over Joker’s cheekbones.

Bruce feels desperately warm under his skin, like he there was something inside him shuddering and throbbing to get out. 

He doesn’t fight it.

Bruce surges forward, catching Joker’s lips in a searing kiss. 

They kiss like they could tear each other apart, lips crushing together. Joker scratches down Bruce’s back, his fingernails sizzling thin lines across his skin.

Bruce doesn’t bother unbuttoning Joker’s pants. He rips the fabric at Joker’s crotch open and Joker lets out a cackle, his fingers going for Bruce’s codpiece. 

Bruce catches Joker’s wrists and stops them, partially because in the back of his mind he knows Alfred would only accept so many explanations for how that bit had gotten ruined, but mostly because-

Joker gasps as Bruce pulls Joker out of his pants and wraps his hand around him, his palm rough against Joker’s throbbing cock.

Bruce pumps Joker a few times while he edges down onto the ground, sliding himself further under Joker until his face is level with his cock. Joker stares down at him, astonishment written across his face until Bruce tugs his waist down and Joker leans over him. Joker catches himself on the concrete as he lowers his cock towards Bruce’s face.

Bruce takes him eagerly into his mouth, the heady smell of Joker flooding his senses. A desperate keening whine escapes from the back of Joker's throat as the head of his cock bumps against the back of Bruce’s throat.

Bruce’s tongue licks over the underside as he grips Joker’s hips and pulls them forward and back again. Joker gets the idea pretty quickly, groaning as he begins slowly thrusting in and out of Bruce’s mouth.

Bruce lets his jaw slacken, taking the man deeper and deeper into his mouth, gripping his hips in encouragement. 

He is drunk on the sensation of being filled like this, the abasement of having his hair pressing into the filthy concrete while Joker fucks his mouth. The sounds of the city around them fade to a dull roar as Bruce lets himself float, knowing only the sensation of hot, slick cock sliding in and out of his mouth and the sound of Joker’s hitched breaths and murmured, “Bats.”

Joker’s whines are getting more desperate, his breaths shakier, and  _ no_, Bruce isn’t done with him yet. Bruce pulls back with a wet pop, sitting back up again as Joker stares at him like he’s something divine.

“Pants off,” Bruce growls at him and Joker complies instantly. Bruce finally releases the codpiece of his suit and gets the rest of the heavier kevlar pieces off for good measure. His aching cock is rock-hard and Joker licks his lips at the sight. 

Bruce pulls a small bottle of lube out of his utility belt and pushes Joker down onto the ground, crawling over him. Joker smirks at him as he lubes up a finger and traces his hand up Joker’s thigh.

Bruce gently pushes at Joker’s entrance and– his finger slides in with no resistance at all. 

Joker laughs, “You didn’t think I’d be ready for our date, Batsy?” 

“Not a date,” Bruce growls.

“Sure babe,” Joker winks at him.

For that, Bruce switches one finger for three, slamming his fingers deep into the Joker just to watch the smile drop from his face, his mouth opening and his eyes rolling back.

“Oh god,” Joker moans.

Bruce slides his fingers in and out a few more times until he is satisfied Joker is actually ready.

“Please,” Joker whines. “Bruce, fuck me already.”

Bruce strokes his cock with his wet fingers, and lines himself up with Joker’s entrance.

He pushes forward, not stopping until he is fully inside of him. Both men go still for a moment. Their eyes lock. 

Joker is staring up at him like he is something sacred, transformative. The raw devotion in his eyes makes Bruce shudder, his cock twitching inside him. Joker’s fingers scrabble at his arms, trying to find some purchase. Every breath the man shakily makes screams to Bruce,  _ yours yours yours._

“Batsy, please, I’m going to need you to–” 

Joker’s eyes squeeze shut, his expression desperate.

Bruce fumbles to adjust his position, one hand landing on Joker’s hip as he pulls his knees up and begins to thrust.

Every punch, every kick, every dirty back lot brick wall they shoved each other against, every time they danced around each other, seeking that violent friction...

None of it could surpass this. 

Bruce is finally as impossibly, painfully bound up in the Joker physically as he was every moment of every day when he floats through Bruce’s thoughts, as persistent as the stars that smolder in the night sky, relentless in their blazing fire.

Bruce snaps his hips viciously into Joker, driving his cock deep inside him. The searing heat tight around him is overwhelming, a fire that burns deep in his mind as arousal gushes through his blood stream, making his vision blur. 

He pounds Joker into the ground, letting everything that had been so deeply buried inside of him burst out of him, shattering every lie he had ever told himself. His omnipresent need for the man beneath him crackles around him, finding purchase in every thrust of his hips.

Joker gives as good as he gets, pushing towards Bruce and meeting his cock with every thrust, spurring him on to fuck him harder and faster.

“Oh god, oh god, Bruce, I–” Joker cries out. Bruce feels him begin to tighten around him in little jolts, his fingers scrabbling up Bruce’s shoulder. 

Bruce takes one of Joker’s hands, intertwining their fingers together and pushes his body down between Joker’s spread legs, something in him aching to be closer. He presses their foreheads together, Joker gasping up towards Bruce’s mouth.

With his other hand, he jerks Joker’s cock, his hand slick against the hot skin and within seconds they are both coming. 

Joker shudders in a broken way, his head flying back and Bruce buries his face in the exposed pale column of his neck as he comes inside Joker. His cock gives one final throb inside Joker and they both still for a moment.

Bruce stays inside him, both of them breathing against each other. The sounds of the city return to the edges of his awareness: the rumble of cars on the freeway, distant horns and sirens, and the ever-present drone of the city that rolls like constant thunder, echoing between buildings.

Bruce kisses down Joker’s throat as he pulls out, tucking himself away and haphazardly cleaning up the mess spilled across Joker’s exposed stomach. 

Bruce glances up to see Joker watching him clean them up and there’s something in the way his lips are parted, the way his eyes are softer and paradoxically more intense than Bruce had ever seen, and he can’t resist leaning up to kiss him.

He kisses up his jawline, memorizing the way the shadows grace the arch of his cheekbones in the moonlight.

Something wretched and hurting aches and aches in Bruce and suddenly he can’t bear it anymore, he has to know–

“Is this,” he started, unsure, “Can this be enough?”

Joker stares at him, his eyes wide. 

“You idiot,” he breathes. “Of course, of course, it’s enough.” 

He laughs a little, amusement relaxing his features.

“I mean, you’ll have to keep me on my toes, of course.”

“Of course,” Bruce says, beginning to smile.

“And a certain amount of mischief is unavoidable.”

“Nothing illegal?” Bruce asks hopefully.

Joker raises his eyebrows at Bruce.

“Oh come now,  _ fireworks  _ are illegal.”

“Nothing dangerous.”

“Perhaps,” Joker slides a finger up Bruce’s jaw. “If I was distracted enough,” he smirks at Bruce.

“That, I can do,” Bruce says before kissing him, tongue edging along Joker’s lower lip.

They take their time with the kiss, savoring the quiet peace of the moment for a little bit longer. When they break apart Bruce glances at the blinking comm-set he had discarded when they first started undressing.

Joker follows his gaze.

“Duty calls, Batman.” 

Bruce groans and kisses Joker’s neck again.

Joker laughs, his Adam's apple bobbing against Bruce’s lips. “You’ve got to let me go anyway, darling. My carriage is going to turn into a pumpkin any minute now.”

Bruce grudgingly pulls apart and the two of them dress in a comfortable silence.

“You could call me Jack,” Joker tucks a knife into his pocket and looks at him slyly. “If you wanted to.”

“Is that your name?” Bruce asks.

“It could be.” 

Joker looks at him and for the first time, Bruce can see a future where they don’t end up dead at each other’s hands, or gunned down in the street together. 

A future with hope.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing this story for a little over a year and a half now, typing bits into my phone late at night and scribbling scenes into the margins of my notebooks during class, so if you took the time to read it thank you so much and I hope you enjoy this last chapter!

“Master Wayne.”

“Master Wayne, wake up.”

Bruce blinks at the harsh dawn sunlight flooding his bedroom.

“For God’s sake Alfred, I just got to sleep.”

“Sir, you’re going to want to see this.”

Alfred turns on the bedroom television and Bruce sits up. The seriousness of Alfred’s tone has him on alert, anxious.

“What is it?” Bruce asks as Alfred flicks to a news channel.

“Victims’ bodies were finally recovered as rescue workers were able to move the large blockages–”

Bruce’s stomach drops.

Gotham General is on fire. The easternmost building is half crumbled into the ground as newscasters describe a scene of devastation.

“We’re getting word from GCPD officers on the scene that this is believed to be the work of the Joker. They’re saying that his calling card was found in the building and the bombs used in the explosion are exactly the same as ones he has previously taken credit for, based on the blast pattern and debris. So far this explosion has cost the lives of fourteen people in the hospital, with dozens more suffering injuries.” 

The newscaster cuts to a far-off video of emergency workers lifting stretchers out of the rubble, each shrouded in black plastic. 

The bag on the closest one is only half the length of the stretcher.

Bruce’s fingertips go cold. One thought echoes around his head, a desperate bird trapped in a chimney.

_ He said I was enough. _

But this had been the plan the entire time. Joker’s plan to  _ break  _ him, make it so that each one of these lives lost was entirely his fault, because he was the one who let Joker go last night.

He let a dangerous criminal loose in Gotham and he was looking at the consequences.

“He’s a monster,” Bruce says. He can’t stop his voice shaking on the last word.

Alfred looks at Bruce sharply, “This isn’t something new.” He continues more gently, “Master Wayne, you know what he’s done.”

“I thought–”

Expressions flit over Alfred’s face, surprise settling into a concern and then a mask of calm.

Alfred’s tone is painfully soft, “You can’t possibly have expected–” Bruce turns his head away.

Angry tears burn at the corners of his eyes. His mouth feels dry, like it had been filled with sand, gritty against his teeth. He sets his jaw.

Alfred heads toward the door.

“But I suppose, without that hope, there would be no Batman.”

Bruce stares at the screen as Alfred shuts the door behind him. The police are beginning to identify the victims, their names, ages, careers, loved ones left behind, and it makes his chest feel heavy. His breaths feel sharp, like his lungs are thick with shards of glass. 

Alfred was wrong. It was hope that destroyed Batman, made him into just as much of a monster as the Joker was.

_ Stupid, impossibly fucking stupid, after all the times I’ve offered him a chance to change and he laughed in my face, why would this time be different?  _

Anger suddenly surges through Bruce. 

All of it, every soft smile, the wistful eyes, all another protracted scheme to get under Bruce’s skin, to trick him into becoming  _ just like him,  _ because Bruce forgot that’s what the Joker always wanted from him. The only thing he ever wanted from him: to win his stupid game. And he had come up with a far more underhanded and corrosive plan than just getting Batman to murder someone. Bruce had somehow forgotten the evidence he had seen over and over again, that this man wasn’t capable of any feeling other than delusion. The dilation of pupils was never love, it was only an adrenaline surge from sick, cold obsession. 

He had been at this job for years, the idea that he could fall for something so obvious meant he must be delusional too.

Or worse, he wanted it to be true.

If that was the case, hadn’t Joker already won? He was under his skin enough for Bruce to turn a blind eye to the possibility of deception, to delude himself into thinking he was skilled enough at reading people to know what was going on inside the clown’s head, that his vulnerability was finally genuine. That, like Bruce, he was getting tired too.

Never again would he let himself be fooled into thinking he understood that man, that he was capable of being understood. That he was anything other than insane.

***

Whatever fucked up part of him that came to life around Joker, the swirling in his gut, tunneling of his vision, the flush that spread across his skin and made his blood pump in places that had always been cold: he would crush it. He would shove that part of him so deep down, bury himself in the old news stories, interviews with traumatized survivors, until that part of him was helplessly bound by the cold hard truth that this man was a monster and anyone that thought differently was just as deranged as the clown himself.

The best way to prevent anything further happening was to avoid Joker entirely. No more giving in to their game, because that’s how this had all started. Because how could he ever know for sure if those flickers of emotion in Joker’s face were anything more than part of the game? All a brilliant joke, one he fell for over and over again. 

He wouldn’t give himself the opportunity to make that mistake again.

He would wait for the GCPD to eventually catch up to him. A city-wide manhunt was raging after the attack and there are only so many places he could hide. The best thing Bruce could do, that he should have been doing from the start, is stay out of the way.

***

Batman doesn’t see Joker for several weeks. The news channels continue to broadcast the aftermath of the tragedy, following survivors and the families of victims into the period of recovery and mourning. 

Bruce focuses his efforts on helping as Bruce Wayne, making sure the survivors get the best medical treatment available, flying specialists into Gotham, and overseeing the plans to rebuild the destroyed sections of Gotham General. Every time someone mentions how proud Thomas Wayne would be to see his son stepping up like this, Bruce caves into himself a little more.

He tries not to think about the gaping hole in his chest that misses being Batman. That misses  _ him. _

Though he doesn’t aid in the hunt for Joker, he goes out on patrol at night, monitoring the chaos the city has been plunged into. Looting and crime increase as police forces are spread thin, focusing on hunting down the Joker, and Batman can’t let all the consequences of Joker’s actions go unstaunched.

So when Bruce sees the Batsignal lighting up the sky he warily heads to the GCPD precinct rooftop, expecting a plea from Gordon for any tips on Joker’s whereabouts. Everyone seems to think Batman has some special insight into Joker’s behavior, _but_ _clearly_ , Bruce thinks sardonically, _they are wrong._

Fall coils itself around Gotham, the chilled air settling into the hard ground, leaves dropping like rain in the brisk, windy night air. 

When Bruce lands on the darkened rooftop, his cape pluming around him, he finds an impatient Commissioner Gordon at the end of his cigarette. He glances at Batman, takes a final drag, then tosses it on the ground, grinding it into the dry cement with his boot.

“I don’t think it was the Joker.”

Of all the things Batman thought Gordon might say, he never expected that. 

And the hope that curls in vine-like tendrils around his heart  _ hurts.  _

“The bomb was built to look like Joker’s past bombs but the chemical consistency is all wrong. The labs haven’t matched any of the materials used to anything Joker used in the past. And the cards were left almost in a trail to where the bomb that didn’t go off was hidden. When has the Joker ever screwed up a bomb that didn’t have a punchline?”

Gordon did have a point there; Joker is an expert in explosives and Bruce had never seen him botch a well-planned crime, let alone on the level of a failed bomb of that caliber.

“And then there’s the possible alibi.”

Bruce’s stomach drops. He stares at Gordon. 

Gordon doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Security camera in a convenience store caught a hold-up at around 4am that night, right when the bombs were triggered. The manager swears up and down it was the Joker, that he came in with a gun but only stole a bunch of candy and chips. But the guy also says he left a $20, which definitely doesn’t fit the Joker’s MO and is why the officers on the scene disregarded it as an alibi and never checked out the footage. But, well, look for yourself.”

Gordon pulls a tablet out of his inside pocket and hands it to Batman. 

Joker looks up at him through a grainy black and white camera, in the exact same clothes Bruce left him in that night. Bruce hits play on the pad and Joker winks up at the camera before looting the place of snacks, his mouth jabbering cheerfully as he waves the gun around. 

It is unmistakably him. Bruce can almost see the purple of his coat swishing through the grey pixels of the video.

“Why haven’t you released this to the media?” Batman growls.

“And let them know we have no idea who was behind the bombing? We’d be eaten alive and we need all the support we can get right now. No, we wait for a solid lead then bring it to the public.”

Bruce’s mind reels. Could he really have been so wrong? And by avoiding Joker, making it obvious he thought it was him, had he destroyed any trust that they had built? The lack of activity from Joker suddenly could be read in an entirely new light and Bruce’s stomach flops uncomfortably. 

He hands the tablet back to the Commissioner.

Gordon takes it, sucking in a deep breath. “This isn’t the only reason I put out the signal.”

Batman stares at him expectantly.

He hesitates for a moment. “I got a call last night, but wasn’t sure if I should bring it to you. I know you must have your reasons for keeping away from the hunt for Joker but… he wants to see you.” Gordon looks away, indecision scrawled across his features.

“He said to meet him at Monarch Theater.”

Bruce’s stomach drops. The theater he went to with his parents the night they died.

“It’s empty right now, undergoing construction that was paused due to budget cuts, but I’m sure you know it’s the theater where–”

“I know.” 

“Well, he…” Gordon looks up at Batman. “He said it would be bad if you didn’t show. I haven’t brought this to anyone else yet but… I’m going to have to bring the GCPD in on this, it’s too dangerous not too. Even if he wasn’t responsible for Gotham General, we don’t know what he could be planning now.”

“Give me half an hour before you go in.”

Gordon eyes him warily. 

“I can do that,” he sighs. “But no more than half an hour. He said midnight tomorrow night.”

“Whatever is going on… just make sure no one gets hurt.” 

Bruce feels Gordon’s eyes on him, a scrutinizing pressure, as he leaps over the side of the building.

***

Gotham is hot once again. A late warm front plods through the city, making the people hopeful enough to pull out their sweaters sticky and regretful by the late afternoon. Dusk doesn’t bring the cool night air that Bruce hoped it would; his suit is slightly too warm and tight, making him wish for a breeze to punctuate the stagnant, tense air permeated by the smoky iron scent of Gotham.

Batman perches on the rooftop scaffolding of the Monarch Theater, securing his grappling hook to the tall metal rods. Through a dusty window he spots movement in the lobby and plans to make his entrance through the window in case Joker sets traps for any of the entrances.

His watch beeps twice. Midnight.

Batman flies in through the window, gliding through the air until he lands on the floor, hard, shattered glass and glittering dust crunching under his boots.

The room was once a glamorous classic movie theater entrance hall, the walls decorated with red velvet drapes and towering arrays of lightbulbs. Now a thick layer of dust covers everything, missing panels from the floor and ceiling exposing pink insulation and crumbling drywall. 

“Always with the big entrance,” Joker sighs, stepping out from the shadows. “And they call me dramatic, ha!” 

The lightbulbs begin flipping on one by one, crawling up the walls, the filaments popping faintly after so long in disuse. 

“Thought this might be a familiar venue for you, dear,” Joker grins at him, poison dripping from every word. Batman’s eyes fall on the shadows behind him.

Three figures are bound to chairs at the edge of the room. Their heads are bent forward, necks slack. Unconscious. On the right is a tall man in a dark suit, the beginnings of a bald patch visible through his light brown hair. A bony woman in a champagne dress is on the left, her skin red where the ropes dig into her arms and ankles. In the middle sits a boy who looks no older than fifteen, with the same fair hair as the man next to him. 

“They were on their way home from some big shiny sold-out musical down the street. Nobody brings their tots to the movies anymore, it’s a crying shame really. But beggars can’t be choosers. And boy, did this one beg.” Joker laughs as he tilts the woman’s chin up so her head lolls back against the chair before falling forward again as he drops his hand. 

Batman steps forward. 

“Ah, ah, ah, Batsy.” There’s a flash of silver and Joker has a short knife glinting against the woman’s neck. Batman halts, still six feet away from Joker. “Don’t be too hasty, darling, or I’ll think you don’t want to spend any time with me.” 

Joker puts his hand over his heart. “Which, judging by the past few weeks, I’m starting to think might be true,” he says with a theatrical petulance. But the exaggerated acting doesn’t cover up the open gash that glares out of Joker’s eyes, wild and feral as a wounded animal.

“You really thought that was me, didn’t you.” Joker’s eyes narrow into slits. 

“That hurt Batsy, that really did, after everything,” Joker says, trying again at his damsel in distress voice but it cracks open, fracturing on the last word.

“Joker–” Bruce begins.

“Well, it wasn’t fucking me,” he snarls.

The woman stirs slightly. “Oh look, Mommy’s waking up,” Joker exclaims brightly. 

“Leave them alone,” Batman growls.

Joker laughs gleefully, “You’re so reliable, dear. Never miss a cue.” He tosses the knife into the air and catches it.

Batman takes a step closer.

“I know it wasn’t you,” he starts, “I saw the footage.” Bruce looks Joker in the eye. 

“I’m sorry.”

Joker bursts out laughing.

“Oh darling, but what is there to be sorry about? I mean it was a great scheme, of course  _ I  _ would never have bungled the last bomb, but sure, I wish I could have taken credit for it.” 

Joker’s fingers tap against the knife handle before curling around it again as he tightens his grip.

“I should have known you wouldn’t–”

Joker points the knife at Bruce.

“Don’t kid yourself,” he laughs sharply, “we both know this is how it’s going to be. You can’t trust me not to massacre people by the dozens and I can’t trust you not to scamper away into your cave every time the great self-righteous Batman has a moral crisis.”

“Joker, I was–” Bruce grits his teeth. “I was afraid.”

“You think I’m not? You think the moments where I think about changing for  _ you _ aren’t terrifying?” Joker bends over laughing, “But the funniest part is–” 

Joker straightens up, laughter gone. “I realized I don’t need to.” He steps over to where the man sits and tilts his face up. He lifts his knife to the man’s cheekbone, running the tip down his face, across his jaw. “Stick to what you’re good at, right Batsy?” He presses the blade against the back of the man’s ear. “And I know, if I’m like this, I’ll never lose you. You can’t resist me,” he lowers his head next to the man and winks at Batman, an empty smile stretching over his face. “Why fix it if it ain't broke, right darling?”

“Joker, don’t.”

“But darling, this is us! Doesn’t it feel good again? Maybe we’ve just been lying to ourselves.” He stalks around the chair to stand in between the man and his son. “You won’t love a monster, you won’t even touch a monster unless–”

Joker lunges at him, swinging the knife forward in a wide arc and Batman dodges backwards, leaning back out of the way not a second too soon. 

“Unless,” Joker says slowly, punctuating each word with a slow, deliberate step towards him, “it has a knife to your heart.” He stalks towards Bruce, his grin venomous, and the danger that churns in his gut whenever he sees that smile rises, but it feels cold and lethal in a way that makes his chest feel hollow _. _

Batman feels the tension break a moment before Joker springs into action. He dodges the first stab he makes at his abdomen but can’t completely step out of the way as Joker follows the movement with his whole body, lunging at Bruce and bringing them both crashing to the ground. They roll onto their sides and Bruce tries to catch hold of Joker’s wrist but the smaller man swings his elbow up, connecting with Bruce’s jaw and making his teeth rattle. As he pulls away, Bruce grabs Joker’s arm and tries to slam his hand into the ground and knock the knife free but Joker redoubles his grip, and then slams his forehead into Batman’s. 

Bruce’s head snaps back onto the floor and, even with the protection of the cowl, his vision swims. In that moment, he completely loses his grip of Joker’s hands.

Bruce stays very still as the familiar edge of the knife taps against his neck.

“Gotcha.” 

Joker doesn’t smile. 

His eyes are a desperate, impossible green. “I really wanted things to be different, Bats,” he whispers. “But this is the only way.”

Bruce stares up at him.

“Joker,” he keeps his voice steady, “You’re not a monster. No one is a monster. You are whatever you choose to be.” 

Joker sits atop him, his face still and unreadable. 

He pushes off of Bruce, sitting on his coattails, facing away from him.

They both sit on the ground, several inches of worn carpet between them.

“Do you remember when I came to Arkham?” Bruce begins quietly. “When I showed you my face for the first time. I had–” Joker’s shoulders are tense. 

“I was trying to end it,” Bruce continues. “I thought if I let you see me then maybe you would realize we didn’t have to just do this,” he gestures to the knife on the floor and Joker’s head twitches toward it. “We could do something else,  _ be  _ something else. But you didn’t want that–”

“You’re wrong,” Joker’s voice strains. He turns to face him. “I thought that you were trying to end it, all of it, there was nothing else for us to be then. Bruce Wayne would never...” he breaks off into a harsh laugh. “You’ve shown me over and over that you only want–” he glances at the knife, “–that you couldn’t stand to have anything else with me and that’s fine, that’s good enough, but I cannot fucking go without that, I don’t–” his voice cracks. 

“I don’t want to be alone again.” 

Bruce reaches out to touch his hand and takes a deep breath.

“Things have changed,” Bruce says. It’s the truth. He would have checked himself into Arkham if he had seen this future for himself before, but they had both changed. Had changed each other. “I wasn’t ready to admit it then but… I need you.”

Bruce feels like he’d spent a lifetime resisting that one simple fact. He needs him. Wants him. More than he’d wanted anything in his entire life. Maybe this was the first time he had wanted something only for himself, not something for Gotham, something he wanted selfishly and wholly.

Maybe that had been his problem the entire time. The whole world had been waiting for him to let go.

Joker’s mouth opens a little bit. Abruptly, he yanks Bruce toward him. Bruce smiles as Joker puts his hands behind Bruce’s head and pulls him forward, peppering kisses over his face.

“And I have loved you from the moment I saw you, you big stupid bat,” Joker says. He pulls away and their eyes meet.

“Bruce,” he breathes, like he’s saying it for the first time. 

Bruce leans closer to Joker, brushing his fingertips over his jaw, their faces impossibly close. He kisses him and everything falls away.

_ This is what giving in feels like. _


End file.
